


The Outfit

by Fulgadrum



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions, Pokemon Colosseum
Genre: Content Warning: Non-Explicit Physical Harassment, Gender-Neutral Pronouns For Reader, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-09-02 13:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8669782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fulgadrum/pseuds/Fulgadrum
Summary: noun: outfit; plural noun: outfits1.	a set of clothes worn together, typically for a special occasion2.	to provide someone with clothing3.	a group of people undertaking an activity together, such as a military unit, a business partnership, or a criminal organizationHe was the face. She was the muscle. You were the brains.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZxLijQvEa4

Going off on a journey with nothing but the clothes on your back and a Pokémon for company—it was a coming-of-age story common as mud. Older than bread. Not sliced bread, but like, the literal advent of baking ground wheat paste. It was just… what people did. Always has been.

At least, you know, if you were the kind of person lucky enough that your parents could afford Pokémon upkeep. And you lived in one of those nice regions where ten year olds could wander around in relative safety. Where everyone is raised with a deep sense of personal responsibility, and the burden of housing traveling trainers and healing their injured Pokémon is placed on tax-funded, state-owned Pokémon centers. Where travel between well-lit cities was made easy by following ranger-patrolled, numbered routes. Where the local criminal syndicates were so weak, that even if your ultra-powerful gym leaders and League members couldn’t protect you, a child armed with nothing but six Pokémon, a few week’s battle experience, and gumption, could.

Yeah, you still weren’t sure what to make of that one. Sounds fake, but you figure most anything can be accomplished with enough firepower, and over in Kanto they apparently just give away Charmander. To kids. For free. 

Crazy world, right? 

That’s not how it was in Orre. (The free Pokémon thing, you meant, not the being-crazy bit. Orre had crazy for breakfast, every day, big servings, second helpings.) No, there just weren’t wild Pokémon in Orre. Hadn’t been any for a long time now, since before they struck gold here in Pyrite, back when the town was still called Prosperity and the train was running. 

No one really knew why the Pokémon left. ‘Experts’ hemmed and hawed about the harsh climate, blah blah pollution, blah blah ecosystem collapse, but it was all nonsense. If Pokémon out in Unova could live off the garbage of their cities, and there were breeds that had no trouble living in other deserts, or in the unforgiving tundras of the world, or the bottom of the sea, or flipping outer space, then Pokémon ought to have been able to live in Orre. But they’d all up and left, or died off.

What had your ancestors been thinking, setting up shop in a land so inhospitable even the Pokémon had cleared out? How do you ignore a warning sign like that?

For a while, it probably seemed like Prosperity could’ve become a great city, a real champion of industry. But there was only enough gold in the mountain to last a handful of years. Aside from a few desperate operations still scratching in the rock, the companies withdrew almost immediately. Accidents became commonplace—your gramps lost an arm when a shaft collapsed, right at the end, when they starting excavating with dynamite because they couldn’t afford to repair the machines as they broke down.

And then, when the mining operation had well and truly halted, the people were just… stranded, here.

These days, even the train tracks were gone—stripped off the dry, cracked earth and salvaged for scrap metal. The only people left now were people like you, the third and fourth generations of a long line of down-on-their-luck, dirt-poor losers. The people of Pyrite—squatters, drifters, thugs, unfortunates—were trapped in a shanty town thrown together from the rusty, hollowed-out husks of hundred-year-old mining equipment. Nestled in a forgotten canyon so totally removed from civilization that you couldn’t get there by road, in a land so barren even the Pokémon had gone.

So there’d been no adventure for you. No coming-of-age ritual. No Pokémon partner, no big life lessons, and no travel.

Instead, your dad had you working the counter at your little corner store since you were tall enough to see over the counter. Sure, that wasn’t technically legal. Even Orre had child labor laws. But if the local law enforcement ever cared, it wasn’t anything tax-free smokes and a hefty discount couldn’t fix.

It wasn’t such a bad childhood, really. Sounded worse that it was. You may have spent most of your time selling cheap drinks and questionable magazines to scary weirdos (at least when you weren’t at lessons over in the volunteer-run school next to the laundromat), but growing up in Pyrite made you business-savvy and street smart and tough as nails. That could get you places. 

Namely, the heck out of Orre.

Now, Orre wasn’t all that bad if you could get out to Phenac or Agate. It was just that Phenac was a desert paradise so overflowing with money that they could afford to pump thousands of gallons of fresh reservoir water into fountains and canals, effectively wasting it, and Agate was, like, a retirement mecca. Even renting, you couldn’t dream of being able to afford that kind of real estate. And really, even if you could, how could you expect to make a living? Open up another corner store?

There was no future for you in Orre. You had plans, though. You just needed some starting-up cash to get you going.

Luckily, there was still money to be made, even in places like Pyrite, though most options were off the table. You could get a lot of dough running Pokémon up from Johto, or placing bets on one of a dozen Pokémon fighting rings. Transporting and selling the usual contraband, stuff you couldn’t grow in a climate like this. Theft, though it really wasn’t worth the risk—most people had nothing worth taking. And, uh, certain dirty jobs that’d make your dad pop you in the mouth if he knew you ever spared them a thought.

All the really bad capital “c” Crime happened in the Under, the unadvertised town-within-a-town that occupied the old caves and mine shafts below the canyon surface. You stayed away from that place if you could help it. With the facilities they had on display down there, it was obvious someone powerful was funneling money into it. Frankly, that sort was just too dangerous to get involved with. You kept up with a handful of contacts down there, though. You knew guys who knew guys. Important to keep an ear out in that scene, because at the end of the day it was because of people like them that there was any money in this town at all.

It was always a temptation to go get involved, but the Under just chewed people up, even worse than the town above did.

No, none of that glamourous, risky nonsense—you kept it simple. Made bootleg DVDs for resale. Scalped Colosseum tickets. Participated in one or another racket. A little fixed-wager betting. Picked the pockets of open-mouthed tourists, come to gawk at the roughnecks dumb enough to live in Pyrite. 

And then, when dad passed on, and you had to sell the store to pay for his arrangements, there was still a little left over for your escape fund.

You’d been raised on grand tales of explorers, forging the severe desert lands, striking rich and making their fortunes. Stories of fierce trainers beating impossible odds. Myths of heroes standing side by side with creatures that could, without exaggeration, be called gods. Saturday morning cartoons, comic books, novels, legends—they were all in agreement.

Go off on a journey with nothing but the clothes on your back and a Pokémon for company, and adventure would find you.

You had wanted a Pokémon from the first moment you saw a distant cloud of Butterfree, blown off their normal migration by fierce winds. Dreamed of them when your father, seeing you enchanted by their flight, had painted delicate white wings on the ceiling above your bed as a surprise. And even when the dolls and picture books had come off the shelves of your bedroom, and you replaced your crayon-drawings with band posters, you slept every night that flock of acrylic Butterfree.

That ceiling, and the house, and the store underneath… your father. All gone, now.

The dream, though... that wasn’t dead until you were.

So here you stood, under a flickering fluorescent sign, in a cavern half a mile under the surface of the earth. You sniffed damply at the unpleasant air. It was too musty for words, and tinged with the scent of old oil. The low light and long shadows made the place seem at once empty and fit to burst. There was a pervading sense that you were being watched.

This was the last place you wanted to be. Hopefully, this visit would be your last, and not in an ominous way, or anything.

Your contact slid out from behind a building, the nervous manner in which he clutched his backpack at odds with his causal gait. A newbie, then, just your luck. He came to a sudden halt.

“Howdy,” your contact greets you, with a Johto drawl. He smiles at you with green teeth, his green eyes glinting through his greasy green hair. You squint.

Okay, actually, that was probably just the lighting. 

“Mornin’.” 

“Hope you got my money,” he says cagily, and it’s the same old song and dance. He wants to make sure he’ll be paid and you want to make sure he’s not swindling you, yeah yeah, you hate this part.

“Your pals vouched for me, you know I’m good for it, and I vetted you and you seem legit can we please just skip to the part where you hand me a Pokémon and I get to fulfil a childhood dream, please.”  
He sighs.

“Pyrite towners, man.” The man sinks to a crouch and sets his backpack on the ground, unzipping the top and thumbing through the contents, which amounted to a heck of a lot of paperwork and one very intriguing orb.

“Here’s your trainer card. This here’s your passport. This piece of paper with the seal means you’re registered with the Johto PC storage system but you have to actually go down there and open an account before you can use it. Don’t come crying to me if you get busted for carrying more than six Pokémon. This is your ID number—”

“That’s the wrong egg,” you interrupt.

“That’s the… no, no it isn’t.”

“On the phone you said you’d bring a Caterpie egg.”

“Yes, and—”

“That’s a Weedle egg.”

“I… no, I was told—”

“Look here,” you say, grabbing the man’s hand, which had been twitching defensively towards the poké ball he kept threaded through a belt loop, “See these ridges? That’s from how the Beedrill store the eggs in a formation of eight, in a hexagonal wax shell.”

“Uh,” said the man. You brush his fingers against the shiny surface of the egg.

“You feel that? Ridges. Caterpie eggs don’t have ’em.”

“Um.”

“Also, Caterpie eggs are translucent. ’S pretty easy to tell them apart.”

The man’s face, already made pale and sickly by the green light, begins to bead with sweat. Your lip curls over your teeth as your eyes narrow. He thinks he can trick you? Like you’re some backwater know-nothing?

“You trying to scam me, you greasy lummox?”

His free hand shoots towards his poké ball and you snatch his wrist. He makes a noise like he stepped on a lego and twists a little in your grip, but he’s not very strong. It’s kind of pathetic, actually.

You clap his hands together. Once. Twice. 

“Here’s how you’re gonna make this right, pal,” you say, using his arm to gesture, “I forget that you just tried to play Baby’s First Con, take this lot at half of our agreed price, and in return, I don’t spread the word around that you’re a filthy, untrustworthy liar.”

He snarls at you, wimpily. You keep hold of his wrists, slowly increasing the pressure of your grip.

“It’s either that or I let everyone know that you, a Pokémon egg smuggler, can’t tell the difference between Pokémon eggs. Which, uh, lemme say, that’s not real impressive. You’ve been in the business, what, a month or two? I’m sure you don’t got much yet in the way of a reputation to damage, but here’s the thing about small towns like this—everyone knows each other. I think my deal’s real reasonable.”

His fingers tremble, but you don’t let up. If he bruises, he bruises. His fault, anyway.

“Whadduya say?” you grin, your smile taking on a knife-like edge. “Shake on it?”

 

* * *

 

The next day, with all the money you saved, you got yourself a cheap cabin in the first passenger ship out of Gateon Port. It was a cramped little room that smelled kind of like vomit, but since your original plan called for stowing away… well, it was important to appreciate the small stuff in life.

Or maybe you were just giddy. First time on a boat and all. And you’d been drinking, just a little.

It wasn’t often you got to fulfil a lifelong desire. 

Everything was just about perfect, puke smell notwithstanding, except the egg in your lap. It was a lovely thing, really. It just wasn’t what you’d wanted.

Butterfree, right? It was like… you know, the original inspiration for this whole thing. There was a kind of pleasant symbolism to it. You’d learned everything you could about Butterfree back in your nerd days (you liked to pretend you weren’t still a huge dork, but, well, certain impromptu science lectures like the one from the day before sort of outed you). Whenever you pictured yourself on a journey, Butterfree was a vital component.

You ran a hand over the ridged shell. It was just a little above room temperature. 

Your first Pokémon…

Maybe… the exciting part wasn’t everything going to plan. Adventures were supposed to be about surprise, right? Probably not much point to it if it was all predictable. Yeah.

You leaned forward. Feeling profoundly foolish, you licked your lips and whispered.

“Hey there, little guy.”

The slightly warm and very inert egg didn’t answer, but you smiled.

“This is exciting, right?”

You felt boat jerk. The engines thrummed to life, and the deck below your feet vibrated.

“We’re gonna be so good, just you wait.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was getting too long, so I cut it in half. here's the first bit, more to come in the next few days
> 
> chapter 2 theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uKJeLG8-M5I&index=141

“Well, Kakuna,” you said, just loud enough to be heard over the distant barking of a pack of Growlithe. “We had a good run.”

“ _Herrgh_ ,” your partner complained, soft voice muffled by the thick, interlocking plates of his shell. He was nestled in the hood of your heavy jacket, nervously bapping the back of your neck with his forehead. You reached back, heavy sleeves seeping river water, and stroked his smooth carapace. The cold probably wasn’t good for the little guy, but you heard once that crossing running water would throw dogs off your scent. It was iffy, but circumstances were dire. You needed every advantage you could get—there’d be time to get warm later. 

Provided there WAS a later.

“ _Mrrrh_.”

“Hush,” you muttered, your breath forming a cloud in front of you. At least the shrub you were crouching in was keeping some of the wind off you. God, and you never thought you’d miss Orre’s weather.  


You shivered. All of this because of a couple forged documents. Johto had been easy enough to get into, and you’d had a pleasant couple of weeks tooling around the countryside. But the second you’d tried to cross into Kanto the whole venture went belly-up. The border control station had been an entirely different animal than the one you’d crossed coming up from Orre on the boat. Everything seemed fine at first. The people ahead of you in the line had been waved through with barely a look, so you weren’t worried when it came time for your to approach the window. So of course the second the customs guy saw _Orre_ on your passport he’d wanted to see multiple forms of identification, and it had only taken two seconds on a computer to run some serial number…

You don’t know what had given you away, exactly. Had someone... tipped them off?

It was hard to stop yourself from inventing conspiracies, standing in that line, waiting for the axe to fall. Then the man at the desk had whispered something about _security_ to his coworker and pressed a button underneath the desk—

You panicked and bolted, some real amateur hour crap. Ended up twisting your way back through the building and out a fire exit. Tried to get off the grid as fast as possible. Avoided the main roads, at first, and then headed into the woods when you started hearing sirens. Say what you will about the Johto police in the wake of that mishandled Team Rocket incident, but their response time was phenomenal. 

If you ever saw that stupid goon who’d sold these papers to you, you’d string him up by his ears, the two-bit nobody—you’d flay him alive, you swear you would. 

If you got caught, that was it. Pyrite trash like you? You’d be shipped back home in a box labeled _return to sender_. The police would dig up every little incident from your past, and declare you an unfit trainer.

They would… take Kakuna from you. The Pokémon you had raised from an egg. How would he even cope?

Sure, it had just been a few months… but you’d been through a lot together. Bug Pokémon grow quickly. As Weedle, the little guy had been absolutely ravenous approaching his evolution.  


One time, when you’d stopped at a restaurant to use their bathroom, you’d emerged a minute later to see the daft grub had gotten into the pantry and chewed a hole through just about everything inside, box or bag. Then he had the gall to sit there in the mess he’d made, covered head to butt in flour, looking up at you with dewy eyes like he’d done nothing wrong. You’d laughed and laughed until you saw the bill. Cheapskates didn’t know good comedy.

Later, in a huff, you gave Weedle a long lecture on the importance of not getting caught (because let’s be honest, you wouldn’t have had a single compunction about dining and dashing, the wormy doofus was eating you out of house and home), and… the lecture took. It was odd, after that. It wasn’t just that there were never any problems like the restaurant fiasco again. He had actually understood you, and all those complex words and concepts you had been sure were going over his head. Like Weedle was… you know, like a person. 

He didn’t want to disappoint you again.

Somehow you hadn’t realized it before, just how smart Pokémon are. Not really. How second nature communication had become. And even after he’d evolved, you could understand pretty easily what Kakuna was trying to express just by watching his eyes.

People like you didn’t form attachments particularly easily, really, but here was the immutable truth: you cared for Kakuna more than anything on this earth, and it would kill you to lose him. You loved your small, cranky boy, even if he was giving you kind of a headache with all the bumping.

Heart sinking, you began to see flashlight beams darting through the trees just a hundred feet out. Your toes wriggled in your water-filled boots, and your Pokémon continued to gently bop you.

This was it. This was really it. You gulped wetly, lips trembling.

“The Pokémon rehabilitation programs in Johto are pretty decent, or so I hear,” you said, wishing, not for the first time, that Kakuna knew moves that weren’t _harden_ or _stringshot._ The two of you wouldn’t even be able to go down fighting.

“You… you gotta promise me you’ll be nice to your new trainer. Okay?”

Kakuna thwapped it’s shell against the back of your head, hard. You whipped your head around, and the bug Pokémon stopped thrashing.

“I am trying to have a moment with you here, dude. _What–?_ ”

He jerked his body left, blinking rapidly, clearly trying to angle himself in a certain direction. This sort of thing had been easier when Kakuna was squirmy and wormy Weedle.

Shifting, you tried to follow Kakuna’s line of sight.

A pair of red, luminous eyes were staring back at you from above a jagged, leafy bough. 

You didn’t shriek, because you were really trying to keep quiet and also because you were cool like that, but you did jump. A little.

The eyes, accompanied by a low hum, darted back a few inches at the sudden movement.

“Hey, no no wait,” you said, holding your arms up, placating. You smiled reassuringly, or at least some kind of approximation of reassuringly, and groped around in your pocket. No… no… _yes_ , thank goodness, there it was—a half-eaten rage candy bar (which, given the name, you’d had high hopes for, even though you’d just resolved to choke it down when it ended up tasting like granola and sadness).

You held it aloft, offering up the morsel. Your other hand you kept clenched tightly behind your back.

“Hey, buddy, look here. Got a treat for ya.”

Behind you, the hounds were drawing closer. One yipped loudly in anticipation.

The Pokémon on the branch, spurred on by curiosity, approached you. Kakuna narrowed its eyes, not at all happy about letting a wild Pokémon near his trainer, but did nothing, perhaps content to follow your lead—just as likely, Kakuna knew there was simply nothing it _could_ do against a foe as large as the Yanma. 

It was probably about four feet long, with a wingspan to match. It quirked its bulbous head at you, trilling. The red eyes had been a false impression, a trick of the reflective layer behind its pupils. No, these were good eyes. Trusting eyes. 

A flashlight beam found you, and then another. A shout went up. The Yanma, startled, pulled back.

There would be only one chance.

You let the empty Pokéball fly.

 

* * *

 

You were just passing through Slateport, spending a little time sightseeing before the boat to Lilycove arrived. It seemed that you spent more time on the ocean than dry land ever since you got here. You liked Hoenn well enough, but there was just too much water.

“Oh my _god_ , look at this thing!” sounded an indignant squawk. You idly glanced up from your brochure. A trio of schoolgirls were sat on the grass in a circle, all looking down on some poor creature between them.

“I told you, Lin. I told you the purple ones were Cascoon,” said another girl, her voice clipped and more than a little smug.

“It’s just so UGLY,” said the first voice.

“It’s Silcoon that evolves into Beautifly. Looks like you aren't as smart as you thought.”

“Shut up! How am I supposed to enter the contest _now?”_ said the third girl, miserable and petulant. The butterfly charm she wore in her hair clacked noisily as she shook her head. 

The Pokémon on the ground, clearly still unused to moving around in its evolved form, pulled itself up and put a shaky foot on the third girl’s knee. It’s green wings were still wet and crumpled.

Without looking at it, the girl braced herself against the grass with both palms and slid back. The Pokémon fell forward, squeaking as it hit the ground, trying to wiggle itself back into an upright position. It made another sound, then—a halting and broken noise. Hurt. Confused. It didn’t understand.

The first girl gagged and feigned retching.

Your brochure fluttered to the ground.

“I can’t believe I have to start from Wurmple _all over_ again.”

You strode forward, tucking your hair into your hat and pulling the collar of your coat around your face, sliding on a pair of sunglasses.

“What’s even the point if they’re not cute?” the girl said, pulling a poké ball covered in flower stickers from her trendy messenger bag and recalling the Pokémon. 

The trio turned to you as you stopped in front of them. 

“Mornin’,” you said, the very picture of friendliness. 

“…good morning.”

The girls looked at one another, their brows furrowing. Your window was closing.

“That’s a cool Dustox you got. Was wondering if maybe you wanted to trade it for my Beautifly?”

You held up an empty poke ball and smiled.

 

(\ö/)  
(/|\\)

 

Later, when those awful girls described your appearance to the police, you didn't think they'd be able to give a very accurate description of you, aside from "person in sunglasses wearing hat and coat". It probably wasn't necessary, but at the first opportunity you had ditched the coat in a trashcan near the other end of town—hopefully suggesting to a potential investigator that you were headed out to Route 110, instead of skipping town by boat. Waste of a good coat, but it never hurt to be careful.

Somehow, you didn’t think that trio would press the issue too hard, but Pokémon theft was taken very, very seriously. Not to mention you’d just committed… what, trade fraud? Larceny, at least.

On the bright side, you felt better now that there were a few dozen miles of ocean between you and Slateport. 

Dustox was laying down on floor underneath your good towel. She’d thrown a fit when you first released her, skittering clumsily around the little cabin, trying fruitlessly to fly, to get away from you and find her trainer, but Yanma had been able to calm her down a little. Dustox still didn’t seem to like you very much, but you’d managed to get the moisture off of her wings and she was looking much better. Physically, at least. You were glad.

It was amazing your con had worked at all, honestly. You’d half expected that girl to laugh in your face, but she’d just handed Dustox over, the naïve sap. 

Speaking of which, your hands were still covered in residue from scratching all those dumb stickers off of her poke ball. It was going to be a pain and a half to get Dustox’s ID number changed—you had no idea what the scene was like in Hoenn, but even in Orre it was hard to reliably find people who offered a service that incredibly illegal, and Orre was, like, the Land of Crime. 

It involved more than just changing a number in a system, but also meant disguising when and where you’d “caught” Dustox, and all the while avoiding tripping any security measures in a top-of-the-line, government database. It was real hacker stuff. Required finesse, and only a certain class of criminal ever touched that kind of work, and they were the sort that ran around in matching uniforms. People like that charge high, like money’s going out of style. It wasn't like there were other options, so you guessed they could afford to.

You tried to stay frugal, but big spending was, you guessed, sometimes a necessary evil. You didn’t want Dustox to be traced back to that girl. 

Or jail time.

And considering you now needed some new traveling clothes, to make up for what you’d tossed out… ugh, why was it that no matter where you were or what you were doing, you were always hurting for cash? Maybe a trainer or two on the boat would be interested in battling? It was a big, commercial vessel. Lots of tourists on holiday. Chances were good someone would take you up on your offer. Yanma would stay in the room, watch over Dustox. There'd be times to patch things up with your new recruit later, after she rested.

Sighing, you glanced over at the moth Pokémon, tossing fitfully in her sleep. 

You had done the right thing. 

And for now, until you could make things right again...

“C’mon, Beedrill,” you said, a sly, lazy grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Let’s go get paid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From my tumblr, here is some relevant exposition I cut out:
> 
>  
> 
> _“When people catch Pokémon in poké balls, the Pokémon’s bioelectric signature is keyed to a trainer’s personal, unique ID, and from then on, they’re tied to that ID even outside their poké balls. This was why, if you wanted to steal someone’s Pokémon, you couldn’t just throw your own ball at it mid battle—the built-in failsafe automatically checks to see if the Pokémon have a pre-existing ID, and if so, the ball just shuts down._
> 
>  
> 
> _It was the best anti-Pokémon-theft measure there was, first because it meant that to steal a trainer’s Pokémon, you have to physically steal the poké ball keyed to that Pokémon, and secondly because of the lengths you have to go to if you want to avoid being traced. Most people get caught in this second stage, when they either transfer the stolen Pokémon to a box (and the mismatched ID, not registered as an official trade via trade machine, immediately flags the Pokémon as stolen, upon which the authorities are alerted nigh instantly) or try to use a Pokémon center (wherein the healing machine runs a very similar process, with the added bonus of cutting off your access to the rest of your Pokémon, if you handed them over to the nurse)._
> 
>  
> 
> _There was a reason that official, league-sanctioned trading usually happened with a big machine and a fancy lightshow—it disguised the rather boring reality of a database updating itself, and the long wait times that entailed. Kept things nice and tidy, too, because along with the box storage system, the government had a very nearly complete, self-updating log of who had which Pokémon.”_
> 
>  
> 
> So we've got Beedrill, Yanma, and Dustox! Anyone who can guess the next additions to the team gets a prize. One guess per customer, please!
> 
> * * *
> 
> WINNER'S CORNER
> 
> 1\. Swirly592 - Correctly guessed **Vivillon**!  
>  2\. HumminMoth - Correctly guessed **Volcarona**!  
>  3\. aceofalmonds - Correctly guessed **Yanmega**!
> 
> And that's a wrap! Congrats, winners!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR, HERE'S MY PRESENT TO YOU ALL
> 
>  
> 
> **CHAPTER THEME: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dKdV4Q-iR4A**

Here’s a life lesson—if you can’t afford a good or service, and the person you’re attempting to buy from says _well, how about I adjust the price like so, and you’ll just owe me a few favors instead,_ walk away. Walk. Away. Even if you’re desperate. Even if they seem reasonable. 

There is nothing more painful and nebulous than trying to pay back the vague idea of “favors” to someone without scruples. They will never be satisfied with what you give back. Inevitably, they turn to underhanded means to keep you on—blackmail, threats, emotional manipulation… whatever keeps you cranking out favors. There’ll never be a _last one_.

God, you hoped this was the last one. 

You flicked on your headset, adjusting the mic, wincing at the crackle of static. It was set to the correct frequency already, but you double-checked, just in case, and then triple-checked a second later. Your palms were sweaty. Sure, this might be your highest profile job yet, and you have never had as much to lose, but everything was going to be fine. Being nervous was just a waste of energy, right?  


Your stomach churned, unmoved by self-assurances. Fishing your binoculars out of your bag and trying find some way to get comfortable on the cold tile roof, you went over the plan for approximately the seventh time in the last thirty seconds. Finally, you couldn’t stall any longer. The clock was ticking. 

“Let’s get this show on the road. Everyone in position?” 

_“Brrrzzhh,”_ came the quiet reply. You dialed the volume on your headset up a fraction.

 _“UeyYYHAN!”_ Fumbling for a moment with your binoculars, you put the volume back down.

“Okay, standby.”

You watched building across the thoroughfare through. It looked fake-old, in that pristine way that tended to characterize academic institutions—red brick, creeping vine, but all the modern amenities of a hip Celadon City walk up. Steep green terracotta roof. Big windows, lots of smaller decorative panes—it could’ve been a college, or a city hall. It was the big marble columns that gave the place away, though.

The Nacrene Museum of Natural History. Tourist destination, Pokémon gym, and library, in order of importance. Unova was, you had found, incredibly infatuated with its own past. People here loved to go on about their “rich history” for a region only established a few hundred years ago—unless you believed all that drivel about it being founded by twin brothers and a magic dragon. Myths were myths, as far as you were concerned. 

The museum was still pretty cool, though.

A lot of stuff passed through it on its way to and from one or another exhibition, and most of it was worthless—monetarily, at least. All those old bones and stuff were plenty _interesting_ , and when you cased the place, you spent a good fifty minutes just looking around. It wasn’t like you ever got to go on field trips in Pyrite, unless you counted day trips to Phenac, with mostly consisted of being sneered at by rich kids because you couldn’t afford ice-cream. So yeah, you got the little audio-guided tool dealy and took your time. Heck, you even bought a t-shirt from the gift shop. It had a big dumb Dragonite skull on the front, you loved the thing. Which was good, because they’d basically robbed you. 4500₽? For a shirt? Really?

Whatever. You hadn’t come today for fossils or souvenirs. 

“You reading me, Dustox?”

_“…diirrh.”_

She was still getting used to the mic, it looked like. Probably was a little uncomfortable; you ended up having to stick it to the side of her face with a bit of costume putty. Beedrill and Yanma had custom equipment. You generally didn’t involve Dustox in heists, but your plan wouldn’t work without her, this go around. Her very first job… it was a long time coming. And if the way she gave you the cold shoulder every time you didn’t bring her along was any indication, she was eager to get her mitts dirty. 

It wasn’t like you didn’t think she could pull her weight, of course, but she was sort of… _delicate_. If you were being honest, you just weren’t sure she was cut out for this kind of business. This would be the test, you guessed. There wasn’t a better show of trust you could think of than handing Dustox a pivotal role. 

Time to sink or swim.

“Move in on my signal,” you said, keeping your eyes on your watch. 

Right about… _now_ , Lenora, Narcene city gym leader, would find herself caught up in an attempted robbery in her favorite café, a venue that she frequented so consistently you could set a clock by it. Seeing as she was a recurring customer and a pillar of the community, she would have little choice but to get involved. You projected it would tie her up for upwards of twenty minutes, which was just enough time to theoretically, you know, steal a bunch of stuff from her establishment.

The timing of this café robber was awfully fortuitous and coincidental, if your definition of ‘coincidence’ was ‘paid off for the implicit purpose of causing a distraction’.

“You ready, my girl?”

_“Diihhsst.”_

“Okay, gorgeous, do your thing. Bee, Yanma, go time.”

Your Pokémon sprang into action. At least, you assumed they did, considering they were out of sight. 

The plan was as follows: team A, Beedrill and Yanma, were coming up into the building through the employee’s entrance. Their part of the plan was the most complex, having more points of potential failure and a dozen steps, but you’d drilled them endlessly on what to do. Beedrill took instruction remarkably well, and with Beedrill there to keep Yanma on task, you weren’t that concerned. Team B was Dustox, who was now situating herself at the air-intake duct just above the dumpsters to the rear of the building—an architectural decision that struck you as unsanitary, but then, you’d grown up inhaling more smoke and coal dust than _oxygen_ , and you were tough as a Heracross.

Speaking of inhalation, you know what move is surprisingly effective in an enclosed space? 

“Dustox, use poison powder, right in the vent, just like we practiced.”

 _“Dissst!”_ Even over the radio static, you could hear the rapid flurry of gossamer wings. That vent fed air into the entire complex, so it was a chore and a half to fill it with enough dust to be effective. On the other line, with team A, you heard a shout, and then a thud. Probably someone had opened the employee entrance.

“Beedrill?”

 _“Bzrt.”_ A hinge creaked, followed by the muffled sound of cloth dragging across concrete. Yanma chirped, and you took it as a sign that everything was proceeding smoothly.  


“Don’t forget to prop the door,” you reminded them, and Beedrill, by now an old pro at this stuff, clicked his mandibles in annoyance at your fussing. 

Sheesh, Pokémon these days. Walking all over their trainers like that. You grinned crookedly, your tongue poking at your bottom lip.

As planned, Yanma and Beedrill made their way to the security room. Yanma used hypnosis on the guard. Dustox continued to accumulate poison powder at the entrance of the vent. Four minutes in, and nothing had gone wrong. The stage was set. You settled in for phase two, which would be, in short, the hard part.

Team A shut themselves in the security room. According to your informant (who was just a janitor with the misfortune to owe some nasty debts to the same people as you, the poor sod) there were only cameras in the display rooms and at the front entrance. You guessed that people felt comfortable slacking with security measures, considering the building was already protected by a gym leader.  


Too bad for them she was busy at the moment.

With a wet splat, Beedrill sealed up the air vent in the security room with stringshot, and then they closed themselves in the room. It only took another minute, and required no instruction from you at all. Your good boys.

“Cut the power.”

Beedrill buzzed and hit the circuit breaker with the ol’ twin needles. It was a knock out. The electricity in the building winked out, along with the lights. It was the early morning, so with the windows and skylight, there was just enough light to see by inside the museum. It was the cameras you were trying to neutralize.

Someone on the street in front of you was shouting, the baby.

You’d give them something to shout about.

“Dustox, alternate poison powder with gust. Switch every thirty seconds, and I’ll tell you when to stop, okay?” 

_“Dishhttxx...”_ She sounded exhausted already. To Dustox’s credit, she was staying remarkably collected.

“You’re doing great. All of you are doing great. Treats for everyone when we rendezvous, and that’s a promise.”

Your team cheered, a cacophony of warbling, squeaks, and buzzing.

Not everyone was having as good a time, unfortunately. In the Museum, the patrons and staff, the unlucky collateral, were starting to panic in earnest. The smart ones held handkerchiefs or sleeves to their mouths, not that it would help too much—poison powder could work its way into your system just fine by skin contact alone

Several trainers were calling out Pokémon, but even with the light coming in from the windows, it wasn’t clear where the poison powder was coming from, and by that point most people were much too sick to stand, let alone seek out a perpetrator. You’d expected runners, but—no, the people near the door were stuck contending with the magnetic lock, it looked like. The thing was designed to keep would-be robbers contained, but why had it triggered? 

Looks like you’d tripped the silent alarm. How? How, how—that man who got clobbered early on? The security guard? Tip off? The police, maybe, if it could it be activated remotely? But then the cops weren’t about to trap a bunch of people in a building if they had advance warning; they’d set up a blockade around the building. 

Whatever, whatever, it didn’t matter. Everything was fine. You’d obviously anticipated people would call the police; you’d be long gone before they got here. And, as you didn’t plan for your Pokémon to leave by the front door like cartoon bank robbers, it being barred wasn’t an issue. It was just, you hadn’t intended to trap anyone—you’d just wanted to flush everyone outside! It was harder when people got in the way, but fine, you would roll with the punches. Poison powder wasn’t lethal even in these quantities, though they’d probably be vomiting for days. You sighed.

Some days, you know, everything goes smoothly.

And some days you accidentally take an entire museum hostage. 

Que sera, sera?

From your rooftop perch, you noticed a child pounding on the glass of the front window, and woman—almost certainly their parent, if the desperation of her expression was anything to judge by—doing their best to shatter the glass with a loose brick they’d pulled out of the wall. It wouldn’t work, of course. You’d done your research—those windows were reinforced with volcanic-ash glass from Hoenn. A traditional handicraft of the region, with a tensile strength still unmatched by cutting-edge science, and near unbreakable. The parent was wasting their time, pounding on it with a brick. A blowtorch would do the job in three hours. A diamond-toothed saw, in thirty minutes. 

The magnetically locked door, you imagined, would be open in ten minutes or so, anyway, once the cops got here. It was a pointless exercise, banging away like that.

You turned up your headset, hoping the ambient static would help drown out the sounds she was making. It didn’t really help.

Something—not quite guilt, not quite regret, but an uncomfortable feeling all swirled up in it-couldn’t-be-avoided and not-my-fault—pulled at your guts nauseously. 

_Misery builds character,_ your brain said, in your father’s voice. It surprised you how clear that memory was. You hadn’t thought about your dad in—

You stomped down on that line of thought, hard. 

Focus, you needed to focus. Those people would be fine. _You_ were the one who’d get buried for this if you couldn’t get your hands on the exhibit your boss was after.

“Dustox, stop. Go up to the roof and wait. Beedrill, Yanma, move in. And mind the civilians, yeah? Hypnosis and supersonic only.”

This time, sensing the change in your emotional state, neither of them gave you gaff over telling them something they already knew to do—they just headed towards the target.

The display you were after was in the east wing, near the women’s bathrooms. It hadn’t looked like much during your visit yesterday. It was a traveling exhibit on loan from the Lumiose Museum in Kalos.

_Pierres Précieuses de Kalos  
utilisées dans les traditions sacrées  
cet événement a été parrainé par la ville de Shalour _

It was a small exhibit, just one part of the larger Regional Cultural Exchange event, the bulk of which was housed in the main hall. The small case, filled with a handful of round stones, hadn’t gotten too much attention. Glass beads, they looked like—quartz, maybe, or some other kind of cloudy, semi-transparent mineral. A dozen of them, all different colors and a little over an inch across, with a pattern inside. Not all that different from marbles. You had no idea why your client wanted them, but you weren’t about to mouth off to the people holding the other end of your rope. 

Not for the first time, you wondered why your client had specifically requested you snatch the stones during broad daylight. Or, heck, why not try to grab the stupid rocks while they were in transit? Surely, if they wanted credit, it should’ve been enough to just leave the calling card they’d given you?

On the other hand, you understood. It made a statement.

Bystanders, trainers, even gym leaders… your clients weren’t afraid of anyone. Weren’t afraid of _hurting_ anyone to get what they wanted. Or at least, that’s how it would look to the public. It’s not like they knew you were busting your butt out here while the people who actually commissioned the heist were safe and comfortable, ready to reap the benefits of you and your team’s hard work without lifting so much as a finger.

You never should’ve gotten involved with these people. 

The distant wail of a siren startled you, and you checked your watch. It had been eight minutes. Not much time, left, now, and you couldn’t expect leader Lenora to be tied up at that café forever. You winced, and hoped for another five, at least.

The halls were clear for Beedrill and Yanma as they made their way over to the exhibit. Most people were laying on the floor, but there was a bit of token resistance from some of the trainers—who were likely correctly assuming that the only two creatures untouched by poison and outfitted with custom equipment were up to no good—but they were nothing a quick blast of hypnosis couldn’t put down. Then, getting into the case was a joke. Shattering glass—and it was just normal glass—with a supersonic wing blast was one of the very first things you taught Yanma. It was a trick and a half teaching him to get the pitch just right, but Yanma always figured stuff out, eventually. 

One by one, Beedrill collected the stones with his feet, and deposited them in a foam-lined case attached to Yanma’s rig. A squad car, likely the only one still available if the rest were stuck at the café incident, pulled up. Your eyes narrowed, but the guy came out shaking. A junior officer. Not a threat.

You shifted you attention back insider, where, as you had instructed, your Pokémon had finished laying the red and black card your employer had given you for just this purpose in the shattered case, on a bed of broken glass. Suitably dramatic, you hoped.

It was at this moment that Lenora, clutching the ridged, bony plate of her Kangaskhan, rounded a corner a few blocks away. You almost wouldn’t have noticed, expect the huge Pokémon _was bounding over cars and through traffic, nothing that big should be able to move that fast, especially not with a_ rider.

It roared a battle cry that frankly would have chilled your bones if it hadn’t been joined by the squeak of the infant Pokémon in its pouch. 

_Two_ riders, you amended.

“Bee, Yanma, time to go, we’ve got company—”

But the gym leader, having had her Pokémon _jump the squad car_ , was rounding back of the museum, clearly intending to use that entrance to get inside, which, god, you had hadn’t rethought your exit strategy even though you hadn’t planned on the front being locked down, you stupid, _stupid,_ idiot.

“Wait wait wait not the back way, Bee, hold up!” What now?

 _“Diiisstt?”_ intoned Dustox, her cry thick with distress. You had almost forgotten about her. And then, you thought—

_The roof._

“Yanma! Shatter the skylight!”

You felt a brief moment of fear, because you knew Yanma didn’t take very well to abrupt, unpracticed changes of plan.

Then, the skylight exploded upwards into shards.

“Escape route 2, got it, guys? Hole up in the rendezvous point, set up for pursuers, just in case. Just follow Beedrill. Yanma, Dustox, I want confirmation you understand.”

They trilled their affirmatives and were away. No hesitation, no arguing. Your good kids.

You sat there, processing adrenaline, not daring to think that you’d succeeded.

Ah. The lights in the museum were coming back on…

News helicopters would be on the way. You couldn’t stay here any longer. Sluggishly stowing your equipment, you easily slipped down the tiles that made up the back of the roof, the museum across the street disappearing from your vision. There was a perfectly serviceable fire escape, but, well, you’d already gone through the effort of securing a rope, so you repelled down the side of the building. You weren’t quick prepared for the shock of hitting the ground—your knees just about buckled. 

You just felt… off. It was odd.

Once, twice, you tugged the rope, and down it came, falling in a neat little pile that you transferred to your bag.

Quiet, you swung your back across your shoulders, and made a slow, gloomy getaway. The other squad cars hadn’t even shown up. It was almost disappointing. This was your biggest heist yet. A crowning achievement. You were supposed to feel, what, elated? Ecstatic, even.

You just felt tired, and undeservedly lucky.

 

(\"/)  
(/|\\)

 

God, it was on the news and everything. Like, the real news. The TV news. 

Sure, you’d been in the newspapers before, as little footnotes. This or that has gone missing, and such. Nothing like this, a handful of news crews reporting across two dozen channels.  


In a numb haze, you flipped to the next one. The camera panned over an emergency medical tent, where a Chansey-assisted nurse administered a syringe of clear liquid to a woman in her thirties.  


On the next channel, a handsome anchor reading from a teleprompter gave a grave speech, and the footage was intermittently cut with very brief snips of action—a yellow and black blur, purple dust settling in a gutter outside, Lenora on her unconventional mount, a rush of people fleeing the museum as the entrance finally swung outwards.

Click. 

One station up, a balding man in a security uniform, in his late sixties or so, described the seldom-glimpsed “perpetrator,” which was either a Combee or a Vespiquen, he wasn’t sure which. The young girl in overalls interviewed next insisted it was a Flygon, and her younger brother chimed in that it wasn’t a Pokémon at all, but a robot built to look like one. 

Click. 

The next channel was just a voiceover on top of a picture of a mother and child embracing. It transitioned into a donation hotline for the Pokécenter Disaster Relief Fund.

Click.

“I may be a gym leader, but even I’m not allowed back in until the crime scene is cleared,” said Lenora, pushing the proffered microphone out of her face with a finger. Her twitching brow was the only sign she was feeling anything other than neutral, but you still got the feeling she was about two seconds from snapping the reporter’s neck. She drew her husband, who was a slight, mousy man who looked feverish and shaky, further into her side, and he leaned into neck. “But I will say this. I know this was no random act of a wild Pokémon. No whim. This cruelty was _premeditated_. So to _you_ , thief—you may think you’ve gotten away, but I swear this by my own honor as a gym leader and scholar, that when I, and the Nacrene PD, _find you_ —

You switched the TV off, and set the remote on the magazine stand next to you. That was enough television for one day.

They kept the building uncomfortable cold. The bag on you lap, laden with your recent haul, wasn’t doing much to warm you. Your Pokémon, stomachs heavy with snacks, slept quietly in their poké balls. You shivered, and a rush of giddiness tingled up your spine.

Not just everyone steals from a gym leader and gets away with it! In broad daylight, no less!

The feeling fades just as fast as it comes. You got lucky. It had nothing at all to do with skill. You set everything up as best you could and still only just scraped by.

It was funny. After all of that, everything going wrong… this was the hardest part so far. Waiting to talk to that man, in the cold of the lounge outside his office. 

Finally, finally, you were called in. 

The room wasn’t large. You crossed the threshold and walked up, slid the bag wordlessly to the man, and took your seat. He opened it up, and spent a good few minutes just gazing at the stones. He liked to do this—make people wait. Probably just because he could. Or maybe he was checking to make sure everything was in order? Didn’t matter to you, really. You just wanted to get this over with.

Your attention wandered as the minutes drew on, to the plant in the corner. The generic cityscape painting on the wall. The digital clock. The ugly grey tile.

It was just a temporary office, decorated nicely enough, but it was obvious even most of the furniture was rented. Not to downplay the operation. You knew a lot of cash moved through this place, but here was an organization just coming out of a long, downward spiral—growing by the day, yes, and swiftly gaining momentum, but at the moment, a strong tide rather than a whirlpool: a current, not a wave.  


Still, it was all too easy to get swept up in the undertow. And it wanted you. _They wanted_ you, and people like you, fresh talent with empty heads and wallets, and absolutely nothing to lose. You saw it all the time back home. Idiots getting snapped up, filled with self-aggrandizing rhetoric, given the barest taste of power, then chewed to a pulp—and fed back into the machine to grease its gears. And they’d only cling harder, then, the ones that managed to stay out of prison or the grave, and then they’d go and attract _new_ idiots. 

Gangs. You never wanted to be part of one.

Maybe a handful of people ever got any real power. People like the man sitting across from you, in front of a black banner emblazoned with a crimson R. Here was one person you’d be happy to never see again.

The man, probably late thirties or early forties, was _still_ staring at the case you had set on the desk before him. His heavy-lidded eyes, set deep in sleep-deprived sockets, occasionally flicked up at you. He had a mole under his right eye. You made that your focal point whenever you didn’t want to meet his gaze, which was just about always.

Though he affected a jovial persona, this man was absolute slime.

“I must say, you’ve impressed me with this one,” he said at last.

“Thank you,” you replied, at once relieved and dismayed.

“It looks like everything went off without a hiccup,” he said, in a tone that implied anything but. He looked at you expectantly. “Unless…?”

“Well…” you said, instantly regretting having spoken.

“Well?”

“The, uh, front entrance locked down. Magnetic lock and all. It’s supposed to automatically unlock if the power goes out.”

“So?”

“It didn’t, sir. I’m, I mean, I killed the power, and it didn’t open—no, what I’m saying is, it should never have locked up in the first place, and if it did, which it shouldn’t have… it should’ve opened back up.”

“And that isn’t what happened,” he patronized, a knowing lilt in his voice. You frowned. Did he…? No, no, why would he compromise his own operation?

“No sir. Which is why, uh, the poison thing. It got out of hand.”

“The poison thing,” he smirked, tapping his foot against you ankle from underneath the desk. “A happy accident, as far as I’m concerned. Makes for punchier headlines, surely. And you placed the calling card?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all that matters, then. Organizations like ours live and die by our reputation, you know. Too bad about that kid who didn’t make it. Allergies, eh?” The man across from you shrugged. 

You jolted and stared, you shaking hands rising to your slack mouth. No. _No, that—_

_You hadn’t meant—_

“Ahahahaha! Haha. Oh, don’t look so gloomy! I'm kidding! It’s a joke, a joke.”

“T-that—” _wasn’t funny, not even the slightest bit funny at all._ “—got me. Good one, sir.”

Your pulse raced. You struggled to control your breathing.

“So when are you going to come in and get fitted for your uniform, eh?” he said, tracing your body with his eyes, as if taking your measurements. “We could really use talent like you on a more… permanent, basis. You would work directly beneath me, and, well, with myself as your handler, I could even see you making executive in a few years.”

Your stomach churned queasily, clenching around your half-digested lunch like you’d swallowed a nest of cold slugs. Still, you smiled.

“Sir. It’s not that I’m ungrateful for all you’ve done for me… I really am! Very grateful. I wouldn’t have my Dustox if you hadn’t been so generous. It’s just, you know, I like a bit of freedom to choose my own jobs. When you’re on a payroll, it’s… it’s different. It’s not my preference. ” 

His gaze was trained on your throat as you spoke. He wet his lips. You discretely thumbed away a bead of sweat that had formed on your jaw before it could drip.

“Eheh. You enjoy a little wiggle room, huh?” he mocked, and squirmed his fingers in a creepy-crawly gesture. “You like… making a pest of yourself?”

You stared. 

“Don’t want to get caught in a web, eh? Is that it?” he said, repeating the hand movement. You realized he was making a joke.

“Haha, ha. Because… bug Pokémon. I get it. That’s very funny.”

“Mm, forgive my sense of humor. I just feel at ease with you. Most people in this organization don’t appreciate a laugh.”

“I can’t imagine why not,” you said, a tad too indulgently, and the man leaned in, his narrowing a fraction. For a second you thought you’d gone overboard, that you’d come off as sarcastic, that your distain had been palpable. You didn’t have much range as an actor. Swagger, bluster, intimidation, contempt… even friendliness, genuine or feigned—those were familiar old costumes you could don in an instant. Rarely were you called upon to play the role of sycophant, and there were very few people for which you would want to perform obsequiousness _less_. 

You waited to be thrown out of his office, with a rictus parody of a smile frozen on your face, but then he leaned back in his chair again, a self-satisfied smirk pulling at the side of his mouth, and you realized—he’d thought the two of you had been having _a moment_. Bile surged to the back of your throat.

“Ah, we think alike! In any case, not everyone who sits in that chair gets an offer like that,” he said, voice dropping as he casually draped his hand over yours where in lay on the desk, rubbing little circles around the bump where the bone of your wrist protruded.

He was looking at your throat again, like he wanted to tear it out with his teeth. You hated this. You _hated_ this.

And he could never, ever know. You may not have been on the official roster, but these people _owned you._ If they wanted to bury you, it’d be as easy a phone call.

“ _Do_ give it some more thought.” He squeezed your hand, still rubbing at your skin with his thumb.

One day, you knew, he would drop the pretense of asking nicely.

“Of course, sir,” you said, your eyes locked to the mole under his right eye. “Of course.”

You waited until he let go of your hand to slide back in your seat.

“I’m leaving the region soon. Greener pastures, and all that,” you said.

“That so? Personally, I’ve found a change of scenery does wonders to clear one’s head. I myself am soon transferring over to our Johto branch.”

“How exciting.” He was tapping your heel with his foot again. 

“Perhaps. Those buffoons can’t be trusted to tie their own shoes, you know. Used to be we had real leadership.”

“A shame, sir.”

“With any luck, those days will be upon us once again,” he said, looking again into the bag. The light shed by the stones glinted in his eyes. You rolled your shoulders, trying not to let it rattle you when the man shifted his hungry expression back to you.

“…well, it’s been fun, but I really gotta bounce. So, uh, please excuse me.” You stood.

“Hold on just one moment,” he said, and for the first time, a little irritation crept into his voice. “I have something for you. Hold out your hand.”

You did so, and he slid his palm underneath, gliding up against your fingers and wrist, then grasping your arm. He held you like that for a few seconds and then pulled you forward. Your thighs were flush against his desk. When he seemed confident he had your full attention, he handed you a manila folder (which was weird, they always mailed their checks) and… a stone.

“Sir?”

“I wanted to hand this to you in person. Your pay, a bonus for an exemplary performance, and though I hate to give you a job right off the tail of the last, I’m certain you’ll have no qualms with this one.”

“What… kind of job?”

“Nothing too difficult—I just need you to run a message up to one of our contacts up in Castelia City. A quick trip, so don’t fuss. The message is included with the folder I just handed you, along with advance pay for this job.” He tightened his grip. “It’s not standard procedure, but, after all… I am placing my trust in you. You won’t disappoint me.”

“I’ll have it done at once,” you said. His grip was almost painful, now.

“Excellent. We’ll be in touch!” he said, releasing you. “When we need you again, I’ll drop you a line.”

You backed away with even, measured steps, and slid the marble—that is, the stone, into your pocket.

“I might be hard to reach. You know, depending,” you hedged evenly, waxing apologetic. 

“No worries. Team Rocket’s a global organization. There’s no corner of this planet we can’t get to. Believe me, when we need to find you, we’ll find you, I assure you.”

He smiled, beaming at you with subtle threat and all the charisma of an oozing boil. 

“…yeah,” you finally replied, waving the folder as you turned away. “See you around, Petrel.”

You could feel his eyes on you all the way to the door. You resisted the impulse to wrench it open, and forced yourself to slow your hand as you pulled. And then you were through, tugging it behind you.

“You’ll always have a place in Team Rocket,” Petrel called, his voice disturbing gentle. 

The door clicked shut behind you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forgive me if there are a million typos, for I wrote through the night and am very very tired. hugs for all my readers. stay frosty
> 
> to clarify, though, because I feel like there'll be questions. yeah, Petrel set the Reader up with the alarm. it was a test, basically, because the thing Team Rocket needs most desperately right now is competent members. and because they passed, the hooks dig in even deeper.
> 
> if they'd failed the test, Petrel would've strolled up to wherever they were being held with a bribe, and offered freedom at the price of membership to his organization. because even unsuccessful, it was an impressive attempt, but also because he really enjoys lording his authority over them (and being super gross (because he wants to jump their bones (and is the worst)))


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=64liF2VuLxI**

It was funny. Only a week after the Nacrene Museum robbery, and the word on everyone’s lips _wasn’t_ the largest mass-poisoning incident of the last decade—it was what newbie gymleader Elesa had worn to the red carpet in her Pokéstar Studios debut. Starring herself in a semi-biographical retelling of her rise to the world of battle and high fashion, “Paralyze My Heart—The Girl Who Shocked The Earth!” was the highest grossing documentary of the past three years. So, you know, her clothes were a big deal, or something. _Model Wears Dress_ was obviously more newsworthy than _Pokémon Gym Robbed Right Under Leader’s Nose, Thief Still At Large._

Personally, you thought her outfit looked like someone skinned a Pachirisu and draped it over a pleather bodysuit. Plus her blue Mohawk and aviator glasses combo just screamed “tryhard”—and yeah, you knew how bitter you sounded. 

Apparently you were already a has-been. But so what? At least it took some of the heat off. The last few days had practically been a vacation, laying low in Nacrene motel, living large (two-topping pizza instead of single, a whole new world of luxurious possibility). You’d been overly cautious, probably. It wasn’t like anyone knew who they were looking for. The police presence had thinned out considerably over the last couple of days, to the point where it seemed only Lenora was still pursuing the investigation in any intensive capacity. Maybe if more people had been seriously injured in the incident, or something more valuable had been stolen than a couple of dumb marbles, the robbery would’ve warranted a stronger reaction. 

As it was… no suspects, no evidence but a calling card (which had yet to become public knowledge, probably to suppress panic—it was only a matter of time, though, before the word got out), no security footage, and a hundred contradictory witness testimonies. As far as responses went, the most you’d seen was an increase of patrol cars in the area. You know, “visible police presence,” all that jazz. All told, little more than a publicity stunt to reassure Narcene’s citizens that the situation was under control. You didn’t envy the detective stuck with this case, which was hopefully destined for the precinct’s unsolved files. 

Good. 

As funny as it was imaging those Team Rocket stooges getting put away a second time, you didn’t fancy getting dragged down with them. With your luck, they’d stick you in a two-man cell with Petrel. The thought was giving you grey hair. Your distaste was uncharitable, maybe, seeing as you were stuck running his errands for pocket change. And your noble benefactor had paid upfront, so you couldn’t put the chore off any longer. 

But enough thinking about that slime ball. 

The trip to Castelia City was a peaceful one, relatively. The bus was warm and only smelled a _little_ awful. You laid down in the very back, and stretched your legs over the gap. The bus was close to three-fourths full. The guy in the seat in front of you, stuck next to a mother and her squirmy toddler, kept shooting you dark looks for taking up four seats. You didn’t care, except it was hard to sleep with eyes on you like that. 

“Ugh,” the guy sighed. 

You crossed one leg over the other. Hard to get comfortable, getting jostled around by the motion of the vehicle. 

“Fff. Unbelievable.” 

The road was pretty new by the looks of it, a sleek and shiny black, but the bus was an absolute clunker. 

“…selfish,” the busybody muttered. Your eyelid twitched. 

At least the air-conditioning worked. 

“…so rude. Some foreigners just have no respect,” he said, his voice rising with every word. Okay, that was it. You couldn’t even fake like you didn’t hear him. 

The next time he turned to glare at you, he found himself three inches from your face. 

“What, man, you got some kinda problem?” you sneered, lip curling. His glasses started to fog over. 

“I—” 

“Yeah? If you have somethin’ to say, go ahead and say it.” 

The creep, a skinny twenty-something with a sweat-streaked hairline and nose too big for his face, looked like he was actually going to retort for a second. But his resolve visibly crumbled the longer you held his gaze, like someone poked a hole in him and all the courage leaked out. Finally, he averted his eyes and turned back around in his seat, slouching out of view. God, what a weeny. Some people had all the spine of a wet noodle. 

You dropped back, your head cushioned by your backpack. The envelope inside the front pocket, addressed to a woman who lived in Castelia, crinkled audibly. 

(\"/)  
(/|\\)

Big cities always reminded you of the Under. 

Size-wise, it was no comparison—there weren’t more than a thousand people living in Pyrite, whereas Castelia City was almost comically large. And the air was cleaner here, which wasn’t much of a boast, considering the Under was a poorly-ventilated mineshaft and Pyrite was a dust-choked desert junk town. Besides that, though… 

Being crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, everyone focused on their destination to the exclusion of everything else... it reminded you of home, in all the worst ways. At the heart of it, both places were unhappy collectives of people, not real communities—like Houndour in captivity, the most you could expect from other people was uneasy toleration, and most folks just got squashed in the mad scramble to be top dog. Everything, from the big ads beaming down on titanic LCD screens, to the incessant bark of street vendors laden with knock-off merchandise, was predatory. This was, you knew, not the kind of town where you could pull a stunt like your Dustox con. Even the children were too knowing, too wary. You kept your eyes open, well aware that tourists like you were regarded as easy marks. 

Sometimes, you thought the worst curse of the criminal lifestyle was just the paranoia that you would encounter _better criminals_. You were just too aware of how many people built their lives out of the ruins of other’s. 

The last thing you wanted was to look meek, but each time someone brushed past, you had to resist the urge to tuck your elbows in. Luckily, yours was a well-practiced façade. You managed to affect an air of easy confidence—not so much you drew attention, but enough that you didn’t look like a target. Chin up, eyes narrow, stride long. 

In the cool shadows pooling between skyscrapers, it was almost chilly. As you trailed deeper into the guts of the metropolis, the light grew dimmer, and the cold, sharper. 

As you neared the address transcribed on Petrel’s letter (632 West Opacus Lane, Apartment 15), the crowd began to thin. The money evident in the previous districts had apparently not trickled down into this part of town. Here was graffiti no one bothered to paint over, there, a broken street light. Garbage piled up in the alleys, warred over by colonies of Trubbish and packs of Ratatta. The locals—loitering in the street, leaning against walls, smoking cigarettes out on balconies, or crouching in stairwells—shot you suspicious looks. Their conversations dried up as you passed. It struck you just how quiet it was. The city bustle and the symphony of rush-hour traffic were a distant murmur here. 

Your mouth pressed into a severe line when you noticed recurring Krookodile emblems—emblazoned on the back of leather jackets, spray-painted on the walls, tattooed onto bare skin, dangling as key chains from backpacks or purses. 

What had Petrel sent you into, the back-stabbing pillock? 

You heard the sound of a Pokémon being released from its ball somewhere behind you—and then another, from an alley to your left. Nothing that would raise an eyebrow in any other setting, but here in the bowels of the intercity, surrounded by gang tags, it was too hostile to brush off. If this was an ambush, it was a weak one, but you weren’t a ~~petty robber~~ masterclass phantom thief because you walked into the unknown unprepared. 

No. For your own peace of mind, you tapped the poké ball you kept in your sleeve, and watched the jagged red beam coalesce into your most trusted partner. At once, Beedrill situated himself at your back, his feet gripping your shoulders, needles draped over your front and brandished forward. He nuzzled into the back of your head, antennae brushing over your hair, basking in your familiar scent. It tickled. 

You reached back, giving the black stripe on his thorax a quick pat. 

“Keep an eye on these guys, bud. Might be trouble.” 

Beedrill tapped your chin gently with the blunt side of one of his needles, turning your head to face him where he was peering over your shoulder. His red, almond eyes peered into yours, projecting a tranquil strength, before swiveling his head around at the gathering miscreants—daring them to try something. You felt braver. Even better, you felt _dangerous._ Slowly, the tension in your back and neck ebbed. What the heck was there to worry about? Your friend here was made of knives and venom. 

Some slimy punk, who’d been eyeing you for the past minute, spat at your feet as you walked by him. Beedrill flared his wings and buzzed threateningly. Aghast, the greaseball jumped back and tripped over his rusty bike, his shoelace tangling in the spokes. 

Served him right. 

“Zzzbzzt.” 

Beedrill concurred. 

Every hokey after school cartoon from your childhood had been right about one thing: you were never really alone as long as you had your Pokémon. It sounded trite, you knew, when put like that. But being a good trainer meant that your Pokémon gave back, threefold, the effort you’d put into raising them. It meant a life filled with loyal companionship, and absolute, uncomplicated trust. Knowing that you had Beedrill on your side was almost indescribably reassuring. 

If someone wanted to pick a fight, well. You’d see how they felt after a dose of _fell stinger._

A quick squeeze into a side alley had you at the correct address. Cracked grey plaster ran up the sides of the building’s entryway, flaking off the wall in complex fractals. The steps were paved with dried-up splots of blackened chewing gum and crushed-flat cigarette butts. A lightbulb flickered above the double door, illuminating a faded, hand-written poster— _have you seen my Skitty, Sammy? Male, three years old. Red collar._ Half of the phone number was torn off. 

Yeesh. This was sketchy, even for Rocket business. 

You tried the door and found it locked. An ancient card-reader was bolted to the wall. Next to that, there was a buzzer with a column of off-white buttons running down its face, apartment numbers labeled in marker on the bare metal. It had an embedded speaker. That was promising, you thought. The number you wanted was… 15. You pressed it and waited for some kind of feedback—a beep, a blinky light, a voice. When there was no response, you gave the button another lingering press, really digging your thumb in. And… nothing. 

This would be a cinch if you could just leave the envelope… 

Someone, stepping up behind you, blew a cloud of smoke into the back of your head. Beedrill hissed, startled, his feet scrambling for purchase in the cloth of your jacket. You whipped around. 

“Hey, stranger. You get lost, or do you got some kinda business here?” 

It was a big guy, which was maybe an understatement. A leather jacket wearing, muscled-up, motor-oil-smelling, cue-ball-headed _lunk._ Built like the unholy lovechild of a boulder and a Machamp. Nimble for his size, considering the mammoth managed to get the drop on you. 

The man took a long drag from his cigarette, flicking away embers. Beedrill braced himself protectively over your shoulder, coiled tight like a spring and ready to strike at the first sign of trouble. You saw yourself reflected in the man’s sunglasses, and reminded yourself that even hulking meatheads weren’t immune to poison. 

“I _said—_ ” 

You cut him off with an irritated gesture. 

“Yeah, pal, I heard you. I got a letter to deliver.” Why couldn’t it ever be easy? 

“You don’t look like no mailman,” the giant spat. A tiny fleck of his saliva arced over the gap, catching the light for a moment before splatting against your forehead. You very deliberately didn’t wipe it, and made no move to step out of the stinking cloud of smoke billowing at you. The man took another step towards you and Beedrill angled himself forward, an implicit threat of violence should the man further encroach into your personal space. 

Thatta boy, Bee. 

“This’s none of your business, so why don’t you just shove off?” you suggested, shrugging aloofly. 

“I beg t' differ, stranger.” 

Too late, you noticed people gathering at both ends of the alley, which at once came aglow with red flashes, the discharge of a dozen poké balls. In seconds, the occupants of the tiny alley doubled, and then doubled again. It really _had_ been an ambush. Forget delivering Petrel’s letter. Could you... could you even fight this many people? 

No, no, you had to run. 

You took an involuntary step back towards the apartment door. The man grinned. 

A hasty plan came together in rapid-fire thoughts: use poison jab on this guy, right in his neck, that’d put him down long enough to get up on the dumpsters, make it to the fire escape, then cut off your pursuers with toxic spikes— 

Indifferent to Beedrill’s petrifying, incensed buzzing, the hulking thug closed the distance and reached into the pocket of his jacket. 

There wasn’t enough time to give Bee an order. Corralled, you took another step back, and your backpack hit the door—or it should have, at least. Instead, you passed through the threshold and backed into someone. A tiny someone. 

“What is all this ruckus, then?” came a robust, aged voice. Unwilling to expose your back to the slob in the leather jacket and his goons, you tilted your head a few inches to the left and looked behind you as best you could. 

It was an old lady, wearing one of those wrap-dresses so popular in Johto. Kimonos, or whatever. She came up to about your diaphragm. Her stringy salt-and-pepper hair was bound close to her skull in a little bun, and cinched with a red lacquered pin. She carried a walking stick; a sleek, modern twist of titanium and rubber, capped with an elegant black handle. It looked like it saw a lot of use. 

“Well?” she said, her tone on the verge of impatience. 

“Just takin’ care of some business, Ms. M,” said the man, shockingly genteel. “Ain’t nothin’ to worry about.” 

“ _Someone_ rung my bell and made me walk all the way out here,” the old bat muttered testily. 

_Oh._

“That was me. My apologies, ma’am, but I’ve got a letter for you—from a, uh, mutual friend. Your hands only, very urgent,” you said. Beedrill chirped charmingly, as though he hadn’t been about to go postal a few seconds previous. Only his claw’s tight grip on your jacket betrayed his tension. 

The big scary lug in the Krookodile jacket shifted his eyes back to you, his eyes suspicious. He smiled jaggedly, looking for all the world like a jack-o-lantern with human teeth. 

“Why didn’t you say somethin’ sooner, stranger? If I’d known—” 

The old lady tapped your ankle with her cane, and you moved over. The man gulped _—gulpled!—_ as she walked up to him, her steps, softened by a well-worn pair of fuzzy slippers, were small and measured. She peered up at the meathead and he winced, like he’d been caught sneaking an extra cookie at snack time. Who was this lady? 

“Johnathon.” 

“Yes, Ms. M.” 

“You can’t scare off every nice young person who comes to see me.” 

“No, Ms. M.” 

“This is why I never have any guests, you know. Because everyone’s too afraid of you hooligans. My own grandchildren wouldn’t visit me here.” 

“…but you don’t _got_ any grandkids, Ms. M,” the man said, knowing he’d messed up before the words were even out of his mouth. The old lady whapped him on the knee. Ah, that must’ve stung. 

On the spot, you decided you loved her. 

“Back-talking! Heavens above, boy. Acting like an unruly child, at your age. What shall I say to your mother when I see her for Friday night canasta? Do you want her to hear how you accosted this poor, _well-behaved_ trainer while they were just trying to run an errand for me?” 

You did your best to look poor and well-behaved. It was hard, considering you were shooting Cueball a smarmy, condescending, self-satisfied, and _evil_ grin over the old crone’s head. 

Yeah, you could tell he wasn’t buying your admittedly poor performance. Something about the way his eyes were promising your death (not today, sucker), when he could spare a look in your direction. 

“Run along, now, all of you. I have a visitor.” Outside, you heard Cueball’s entourage sighing and grumbling as they stowed their Pokémon. Looked like they’d have to shake down some other idiot. Your heart went out to them, it really did. 

“Oh, and Johnathon?” 

“… yes, Ms. M.” 

“The push-to-talk on my doorbell is broken again.” 

“…I’ll send someone over to have a look.” 

“Thank you, dear.” 

‘Johnathon’ frowned and went, giving you one last lingering glace. Aw, you missed him already. You waved goodbye, and Beedrill mimicked the gesture. 

It wasn’t until the old woman turned and transfixed _you_ in that sharp stare that you realized you might’ve just landed yourself in a heap more trouble than some gang of miscreants. Her brow furrowed, her lips drawing up into a puckered frown. The eyes on this lady were terrifying. It wasn’t any _one_ thing—the cockroach-brown irises, the sparse grey lashes, the deep cut wrinkles—but her eyes had you pinned down, absolutely beholden to her judgement. If at that moment, she suddenly untucked a few sets of spider limbs from behind her back and sank her fangs into you, it wouldn’t have shocked you. 

It was hard to describe—just, when she looked at you, it was like she could see _everything_. All the pretense, stripped away. Like… like you were an unremarkable mote of dust, or a particularly stupid child. 

Beedrill, sensing your dread and judging the threat beyond his capabilities to handle, flattened his body against your backpack, just peeking his head over your shoulder. You shifted unconsciously, shielding him. 

The old woman tutted quietly, as if she, having seen the sum of the two of you, was just a bit disappointed. A bead of sweat ran down your back. 

Then, as if nothing untoward had occurred, she reverted back to a cranky old granny. 

“I believe you had something for me? Don’t just stand there gawking. Come along. If you’re who I think you are, I imagine we have much to discuss.” 

She headed inside. Thoroughly cowed, you followed without complaint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand this chapter was getting unwieldy, so I cut it in half. Sorry it ends on kind of a cliffhanger.
> 
> Mostly all this is set up for good stuff later. Sorry if it's boring.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **CHAPTER THEME: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YZpflXsTxV0**
> 
> does anybody actually listen to these?

The apartment’s halls were of much the same sort of dilapidated condition as the building’s exterior. The carpet was worn beyond threadbare, with long streaks of exposed concrete where the plush surface and adhesive underside had frayed to nothing. You kept getting your shoe caught in gouges in the floor. The old woman leading you was having no such issue, strolling along at a brisk pace, assisted by her walking stick. 

It smelled like mildew and old sweat. Beedrill had buried his head in your jacket almost as soon as you’d come in, and now the odor was starting to get to you, too. There was no way it could be healthy to breathe this air every day. The walls were stained, a grimy mix of water damage, scuffing, and discoloration from smoke. At least the lighting was constant, if a bit dim. Honestly, that was for the better—the more you saw, the less you liked. 

“Ah,” your host finally spoke. “You must forgive Johnathon. The boy is sweet, but a bit hot-blooded.” 

You almost laughed. That ‘boy’ was a _reptile,_ through and through, and about as sweet as week-old Cinnabar chili. Still, you weren’t about to contradict the old bat. The last thing you wanted was Petrel to chew you out for mouthing off at a client. 

“It’s whatever, as long as he doesn’t try anything else,” you hedged. The old woman sniffed. 

“I should think not.” 

Somehow, you didn’t doubt her. 

The two of you rounded the corner, coming upon a door labeled 15… except, of course, the five was missing. You could see the place the number had been from where it had gouged out a hole in the off-white paint. 

“Here we are,” she said, slipping a key into the lock, “Not much of a view on this level, I’m afraid. It isn’t my preference, but the elevators haven’t worked in fifteen years. I just can’t handle the stairs anymore, you see.” 

You nodded absently, itching to just hand over the stupid letter and skedaddle. The door swung open, and you were drawn inexorably inwards by the woman’s beckoning. It was warmer, inside. Darker, too. 

“So,” you said. “Uh, Ms. M, was it?” 

“Please, call me Midori.” That confirmed your suspicion—she was from Johto or Kanto, for sure. She didn’t offer a surname, and you didn’t ask. 

“Right. Midori. I’ve got this—” 

She closed the door behind you, cutting off your only escape route. 

“—letter.” 

“Why don’t you take a seat?” she said, flicking on an ornate table lamp with a cream shade and red tassels. Resigned to your fate, you sullenly navigated over to the table she was gesturing to and plunked yourself into a straight-backed wooden chair. Beedrill flitted off your shoulders to inspect a potted plant in the far corner. 

Satisfied at your obedience, Midori went into the adjacent kitchen. You listened to her putter around, idly examining the small apartment to the sound of clinking china and the hum of an electric kettle. It was a well-decorated place, considering. Maybe even a little crowded. There were so many cabinets and shelves clustering along the perimeter of the room that most of the other furniture, like the couch and the table, had been pushed into the relative middle. It was hard to tell in the low light what exactly all the doodads on display were, but the lady clearly loved her knickknacks. 

There were a selection of paintings, too, in hefty wooden frames. A smaller charcoal drawing caught your eye. It looked like a reproduction of _A Sketch of a Windmill,_ the kind of print that you could buy in a museum gift shop. Even before you’d started researching expensive artifacts, when you’d just started out as a thief, you’d known that particular piece—first, because it was by one of those real famous renaissance Kalos painters, and second, because… 

Well, because the original had been stolen. 

The work had vanished, quite mysteriously, about a decade before you’d been born; a replica now hung in the Lumiose Museum. Speaking of, the old woman’s copy was impressively well-made, for a knockoff. It was printed on high quality parchment, or maybe vellum. It looked authentically fragile. Translucent. Actually, you could even see the textured grain of the charcoal strokes. 

…hang on. 

Your eyes narrowed. Over on the tallest shelf, was that… was that a Fabergé Chansey being used as a bookend? And that thing over on the far wall, hanging from a nail with a piece of wire. It could only be the Ecruteak Spirit Bell, an artifact presumed lost after the burning of Brass Tower. You’d only ever seen artist’s renditions. As far as you knew, no one knew what it looked like in enough detail to actually recreate it—except for its most distinguishing feature, a pair of feathers said to adorn the clasp. One gold plume, tipped with scarlet and viridian, and the other, pure silver. 

The likeness was uncanny. 

And the lamp from earlier—now that you were looking closely, you’d seen others just like it. It was retrofitted to run on electricity, but there was no mistaking the white porcelain, delicately painted with a field of Kalosian lavender. This was a lamp that had brightened the rooms of the opulent Parfum Palace hundreds of years ago, before the execution of the aristocracy. 

It was the heirloom of an ancient king. Those didn’t just get up and walk away. 

You slowly rose from your chair. 

_There was no way._

Midori came back into the room. She was accompanied this time by a massive Pokémon. It six red wings beat almost silently, shedding heat with each repetition. The source of the apartment’s unusual warmth, you guessed. Volcarona. Until now, you’d only ever seen it in pictures. Beedrill flapped back over to you, having either satisfied his concern over the plant he’d been poking at, or because he didn’t feel safe exposing you to strange Pokémon. 

“Sit down and close your mouth,” your host said. 

Once again hyperaware that you were surrounded by obscene amounts of wealth, you sank back into your seat, deflating like a balloon. The old woman set down a tray and slid a mug of dark coffee over to you. Funny, because you’d kind of expected tea. Served out of flipping diamond teacups, maybe, nothing could surprise you now. 

“I know who you are, child,” Midori said, settling in opposite you, her Volcarona fanning over waves of heat from behind her chair. “I know who sent you to me, and I know what you’ve done. You’ve been careful, for an amateur, but I’ve been in this line of work for longer than you’ve been alive. Take this advice from master of the craft—sooner or later, if you carry on as you’ve have until now, you’re going to get sloppy. I worry the result is going to be more than a handful of serious but treatable poisonings.” 

"How—" 

“I’m going to share something with you, something you take with you to your grave: my father was the Black Arachnid. You will have heard of him, I’m sure. Until the day I surpassed him, that man taught me everything I knew about professional thievery.” 

So far past shock you had reached a kind of detached peace, you stared at the woman across from you. 

“What.” 

“The incident is infamous now. Passed around as a sort of burglar’s fable among our types. What happens when you get cocky, when you underestimate the law, when your plans stagnate and your skills atrophy. What happens is _you get caught_. All it took was one lucky officer to depose my father. I wonder how he would have fared if it had been a gym leader with a personal vendetta on his tail, instead.” 

Unsettled, you bared your teeth and scowled. 

“So I messed up. I know that, okay? I know I need to be more careful.What are you trying to say? That I'm gonna become some kind of— some kind of _allegory._ ” 

“Allegory? Try laughingstock.” 

This pretentious old crone was really starting to tick you off. Actually, why were you still here? Why take this crap from some batty witch who didn’t even know you? So what if she was some kind of expert thief? So what if her dad really was the Black Arachnid? All you had was her word, and even if it was all true, that didn’t give her the right to talk down to you. If anyone was a joke, it was her. Hoarding treasure, her valuables stacked wall-to-wall in the shambles of an apartment inside the belly of a slum. You stood up and flung the envelope onto the table in the same abrupt motion, upsetting the stack of jam cookies she’d set down with the coffee. Volcarona hissed. Beedrill responded in kind. 

“That letter’s yours. I’m out of here.” You turned and went, striding for the door. 

_“Sit yourself back down right this instant,”_ the mean-spirited shrew spat, raising her voice for the first time. “We’re not done.” 

Yeah, no. Not a chance. 

“I told you to sit down!” 

You curled your fingers around the doorknob. 

“I’m up to my neck in unruly children,” she muttered. “Heaven’s sake. Do you want to be under that man’s thumb for the rest of your life? Because that’s exactly where you’re headed. Trading service for service with those people until you’re long into your retirement, and they _still_ send young initiates to your door, begging for favors. Leaving you no choice but to indulge them, under threat of exposure, until the day comes that you pass from this world.” 

Midori idly sipped her drink. You could feel her eyes on you, even as you refused to turn and face her. 

“You’re ensnared, now, by a lifelong contract that you signed your name to without bothering to think of the consequences. They’re eager to sign your name to their roster, and you don’t see any way out. Am I wrong?” 

Was she? 

You turned over her words in your head. No, you thought, stomach sinking. She wasn’t wrong, not really. 

All at once, your fight had left you. Was this your future? Kept like a half-forgotten tool in a museum of your accomplishments? You drooped, arms hanging limp, palms curling inward. Your head swam, escape forgotten. Or maybe, in the greater sense… impossible. 

“Come sit down.” 

Numbly, you went and sat. 

“Try a cookie. You’ll feel better.” 

Nodding absently, you took two, and held one up for Bee. Perching on your shoulders, he rubbed his head against the top of yours, and finished the snack in four quick bites. You dunked your cookie in coffee, and left it to soak. 

“Now, then,” she said, at last taking the envelope. She set aside the paper that had been your instructions, and idly thumbed through the rest. You watched numbly, waiting to be dismissed, or possibly condemned. There were quite a few pages to read, it looked like. You hadn’t peeked. Half because you hadn’t wanted to know (or so you insisted to yourself—the less you knew, the less involved you were) and half because it was beyond you to care. It wasn’t like anything Team Rocket sent would be a pleasant read, anyway. As the quiet stretched on, punctuated by the hush of paper and the steady beat of Volcarona’s wings, you downed the lukewarm coffee-cookie mush in your cup. 

Finally, Midori folded the papers back up, and placed a hand on her chin. 

“I understand you were given a stone. May I see it?” she asked, in a tone that didn’t broker argument. The reflexive protest died on your lips. 

“It was, uh, supposed to be a reward,” you said instead, clutching the marble in your pocket. Sure, it wasn’t exactly valuable as far as you knew, and you probably didn’t even _deserve_ to keep it, but Petrel wanted these things badly enough that he’d hired a professional(ish) thief to get his hands on them. They had to be worth something, right? 

Even as you attempted to justify your attachment to the little marble, you quietly admitted to yourself that it wasn’t quite rational. It just felt good to hold it—right, somehow. 

The old woman sighed. 

“I just need to examine the stone for a moment. Please.” 

There was nothing else for it. Frowning, you handed your marble over. 

Midori produced another stone, this one about half again as large as your black and yellow marble. The bigger stone was banded in a variety of shifting colors, with a black cat’s eye helix twisting through the middle—it didn’t much resemble any gem you’d ever seen before, but it didn’t quite look manufactured, either. The woman peered closely at the stones, resting opposite each other palms of her hands. Her concentration was exceptionally intense. She had be watching for some kind of reaction, but you were clueless as to what. 

Then again… maybe it was just the quiet getting to you, but there was a kind of charge to the air. The hair on the back of your arms was starting to stand on end. 

“It’s genuine,” she said at last, resting both stones down on the tea tray. As soon as she set the stones down, whatever weird energy you’d sensed (or, more likely, imagined) dissipated. You wanted to snatch the little one back up, but didn’t. Beedrill shifted about on your shoulders, antsy. 

“That’s it?” you asked. This was your Rocket-sanctioned mission? To watch an old lady hold some rocks in silence, for like ten solid minutes? 

“That’s it. I’ll inform our mutual associates. I’m sure they’ll be very pleased.” 

Somehow that didn’t seem worth it, after narrowly avoiding getting the tar beaten out of you in a back alley, and then getting insulted a whole bunch. You wished Petrel had just mailed the old bat a flipping marble, like a normal person. It wasn’t like the police would be going through mail. And what the heck would’ve happened if Midori hadn’t been home—if you’d just slipped the letter under her door like you had wanted to from the start? Why even give you the dumb marble when he could’ve included it with Midori’s note? Was it some kind of test, to see if you’d follow his instructions perfectly? Typical Rocket. Even their rewards were bundled with shadowy ulterior motives. 

“I must admit, I’ve appraised many precious gems in my time, but I’ve rarely had the opportunity to handle one of these. That man obviously places a lot of trust in you.” 

“…yeah,” you said, managing to keep most of the disgust out of your voice. 

“Not even a proper member, and you’ve been granted a mega stone as a bonus. I’m sure others would find your position enviable.” 

To that, you said nothing. Just grimaced in a manner that might, with some artistic license, be described as a smile. 

(Also, the marble was apparently a mega stone. You quietly filed that revelation away.) 

“It’s a real honor,” you said, flatly. 

“I don’t much like him, either,” Midori replied. Just like that, she was back in your good books. 

You helped yourself to another cookie. The old woman drained her cup and set it down, altering the balance of the tray just enough that your mega stone and Midori’s clacked together like billiards, the shock separating them again. Beedrill’s eyes traced their path as they rolled into a plate. 

“You know, dear… it’s curious, how history goes in cycles. Familiar as I am with your methods, I can’t help but think… we’re just a bit similar.” 

“Maybe so,” you allowed, not really seeing it. 

“You’re unpolished, of course. But then, I doubt you had the benefit of being born to a world class thief. Tell me—why do you favor insect Pokémon?” 

It was an odd question. You tried to formulate the answer in a way that would satisfy her while still stripping out information that might be used against you. 

“There’s no big reason. I guess I just started out liking one bug Pokémon in particular, back when I was a kid. We weren’t, you know, well off or anything. So it wasn’t like I could have one…” you trailed off, embarrassed by the personal details you’d just blithely rattled off. It wasn’t dangerous for her to know you’d been poor, but you didn’t make a habit of telling people your emotional life details. Midori didn’t seem to be judging you—honestly, she wasn’t very emotive, period—so you took that as encouragement to continue. 

“I read everything I could get my hands on about it, but there wasn’t all that much, back where I used to live. So I moved on to other species of bugs, too. There are loads of bug type hobbyists, even out in the boonies, so there was always somethin’ to dig into. Science journals and stuff. It got to the point where, uh,” _your dad,_ you thought, with a little ache in your chest, “—people, started having to get books and documentaries imported, for birthdays and stuff. My interests were pretty… singular.” 

Oof. Contemplating all this ancient history was really taking it out of you. The old lady was still watching you expectantly. 

“That’s it, really. I didn’t get into training until recently. Beedrill was sort of a happy accident, I guess.” 

Beedrill huffed and pressed a foot into your cheek. You waved him off, and he flew along the floor to the other side of the room, feigning dejection. 

“I said it was a _happy_ accident.” In response, the little blockhead scuttled behind the potted plant. You hoped the old lady didn’t mind him messing around, in her room full of inconceivably priceless artifacts. Turning back to her, you saw she hadn’t really taken her eyes off you. Neither had her Volcarona. The twin stares and temperature were kind of intense. 

“A whim, then,” she said rather succinctly dismissing your ramblings. “But you persist in raising them, even with all the disadvantages?” 

You bristled. 

“If you’re quick and clever, it doesn’t matter a lick if the other side has type advantage.” 

Also, a little poison went a long way. 

All was quiet for a time. Then Midori smiled—a quick, satisfied upturn of her lips. Inexplicably, you felt like you had passed some kind of test. She leaned in, resting a thin forearm on the table. 

“Did you know, even after all these years, the law enforcement of Catallia responsible for my father’s arrest still use Spinarak? In tribute, or so I’ve heard, of the officer who finally brought him down.” 

“…I hadn’t, actually.” 

“Of course, I only know this second hand. I was born nearly two decades after my father’s capture, by which point he had been released back into society as a reformed man, who had learned well that power sometimes comes in unassuming forms. When the title of Black Arachnid was passed down to me, I made it my prerogative to never make the same mistakes my father had. Part of that, as I saw it, was taking that lone officer’s power and making it my own.” 

“So you use bugs?” you asked, faintly perplexed. 

“Bug Pokémon have many strengths. In nature, they’re resilient and hardy, primed with any number of poisons and venoms to survive contact with predators… or at least take their enemies with them. Bugs grow and mature very quickly. What they lack in damage resistance they more than compensate with versatility. Often overlooked, however, is their true advantage—more than any other type, Bug Pokémon support one another. As many as hundreds, acting in concert as a single organism.” 

“I mean… plenty kinds of Pokémon group up.” 

The conversation wasn’t just about type preferences or the past anymore. Maybe it never had been. You could tell she was trying to get at _something_ , but you weren’t sure what. 

“The advantage a hive has—over, for example, a herd—should not be underestimated. In times of danger, a hive acts in perfect decisiveness in defense of the whole. A hive fights to the last, indivisible, cohesive, harmonic. The latter is an arrangement of convenience, very rarely coordinated to any effective degree. Weaker organisms in a herd often just find themselves… picked off, by predators. And you know what strategy stands even less of a chance?” 

She held your gaze, unblinking, and you felt like a lab sample pinned to a table. 

“Isolation,” she said, her knife-like stare almost more paralyzing than her words. “The creature who goes it alone is by far the weakest of all.” 

You understood, at last. 

“…you’re telling me to join Team Rocket.” 

Midori gestured dismissively, the redistribution of weight on the table sending the mega stone and its partner rolling wildly. 

“I’m _telling you_ that if you don’t find some kind of support, you’re going to fail. Perhaps not your next job, or the one after, but you _will fail_. And you won’t have any allies to save you. Just one more promising aspirant, spending the rest of their life behind bars. We don’t live in an age where even a talented thief can make their career alone, anymore. Not with the state of technology being what it is. Not with the rising threat of Interpol, or the League. It simply isn’t viable. Not for old professionals like myself, or fresh talent.” 

She wasn’t wrong. You knew that. 

But joining Team Rocket was the last thing you wanted to do. It made you sick to even think about the snare they’d drawn around you, every day tightening like a noose. When the time came that Petrel lost patience waiting for you, when he got sick of just pining, you’d either find yourself in a Rocket uniform or in a prison cell. He had more than enough dirt on your to put you away for a long, long time, and was more than petty enough to ruin you like that. It was just that simple. 

You could join some other group, maybe but there weren’t exactly that many outfits that could stand up to Team Rocket even in its weakened state, let alone defend you from freaking _Interpol._ Besides, as dumb as it was, you just didn’t feel ready to settle down anywhere yet. And even if you wanted to put down roots, how would you support yourself? Laughably, the only skill you had in your arsenal besides encyclopedic bug knowledge and general thievery was manning a convenience store counter. 

Still. There had to be something you could do, somewhere you could go. Right? 

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” Midori said, before pressing both the mega stone and the rainbow marble into the palm of your hand. “After all, I’ll disown any apprentice of mine who lands themselves in prison before they even have grey hair. It’s just shameful.” 

… 

“Your what, now?” 

(\"/)  
(/|\\)

Somehow, you ended up spending the night in that place. Then the next, and the next, sleeping through the nights curled up on her little couch in the midst of her ill-begotten finery. The days were spent with Midori, exhaustively going over every robbery you’d ever made, every con you had pulled, with special attention paid to everything that had gone wrong with the Nacrene Museum heist. It was frustrating, maybe even a little humiliating, but with Midori offering her expertise free of charge… it would be stupid to pass up the chance to learn from a master, even if that master was affiliated with Team Rocket. You were already learning so much. 

Speaking of those Rocket goons, you were working on a plan to deal with that, too. So far, what you’d come up with was, well, going somewhere very far away where they probably didn’t have any agents. Not exactly a brilliant stratagem, but Midori was pulling strings for you to get you some new papers, and you had a few remote locations in mind already. At least it was a start. 

You weren’t really sure you trusted the old lady, as kind as she was being for you. For now, it seemed like her desire to train up a new Black Arachnid was overriding any loyalty she might have to her longtime Rocket benefactors. She saw something in you. Rough potential, probably, because she spent too much time berating you over screw-ups for it to be talent. Indulging her was your best chance of surviving Team Rocket’s attempted recruitment, even if all the talk of successors and legacies left you kind of uneasy. On a happier note, you had even gotten in some practice with your mega stone—which, as it turned out, could do some pretty wild stuff. 

What Midori had given you was a keystone. It acted as a kind of catalyst for your yellow and black mega stone, Beedrillite. When the old woman had described the ordeal she’d gone through to get her hands on the keystone—scaling an ancient tower in the dead of winter, fending off a pair of monks and their irate, battle-hardened Lucario—you hadn’t wanted to accept it. She’d earned it, after all. 

But when you tried to return it to her, Midori just said that she had no use for it anymore, now that her Heracross had passed on. 

Her only surviving Pokémon seemed to be Volcarona, a species which was incredibly long lived, for bug Pokémon. You’d gone through the trouble of introducing the pair to Dustox and Yanma, the latter of whom was under no circumstance allowed in Midori’s apartment, after she discovered you’d taught him how to sonically shatter glass. Dustox seemed to be just a little in awe of Volcarona, and would putter around after the larger moth Pokémon. 

Maybe _lovestruck_ was a better term, actually. It was cute, to the point it was kind of unbearable. Volcarona was very patient with her, though. The big fluffy space heater was growing on you a little—and her crotchety old trainer, too. 

It was a shame those sedate, easy-going days couldn’t last. 

Your new papers came, printed on yellowed paper and subtly scuffed, like you’d had them your whole life. They’d even found a look-alike to pose for pictures of you as a child. The cost must’ve been astronomical, but Midori just brushed off your concern. 

_“Pay me back when you make something of yourself,”_ she said, _“And don’t you dare forget to call.”_

You fully intended to. The first investment you’d made was the boat ticket crumpled in your pocket, the priciest you’d ever purchased. Expensive for a boat ride, but a pittance for the trip that would hopefully deliver you to the shores of a brighter future. Not everyone was lucky enough to get second chances, you knew. 

There it was in the distance, cresting over the horizon. Alola. 

Beedrill clutched at your jacket, buzzing with excitement. The weather was phenomenal, so you’d called him out to get some sun. He wouldn’t sit still. Possibly because he could sense your own enthusiasm, and possibly because it reminded him of the first time you’d met. He’d hatched on a boat, just like this one, just a year and half ago—a _lifetime_ ago. So much had happened since then. 

_It’s curious, how history goes in cycles._ It was something Midori had told you. 

Maybe there was something to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY, ALOLA
> 
> we touch down on warm sands next chapter, and the Ya Boi-ening begins the one after, I believe. stay thirsty,
> 
> sorry this chapter is a million years of talking to a mean old lady. this one fought me like you wouldn't believe. 
> 
> Also, as trivia, Midori and the Black Arachnid are, in a manner of speaking, canon
> 
> http://bulbapedia.bulbagarden.net/wiki/The_Black_Arachnid  
> http://bulbapedia.bulbagarden.net/wiki/Midori_(GB2)
> 
> That's not the only fun stuff I snuck in, either, hehe, just the most obscure


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4BSJAAo1uNY**

_The Alola region is a collection of lovely tropical islands, each beautiful in their own unique way! Bask on the beach at Hau’oli, shop ’til you drop at one of our fine outlet stores, take a load off at one of our several luxury hotels, and don’t forget to try a delicious Malasada! If nature is what you seek, go on a scenic walk through the sun-dappled glades of Melemele, stop by a traditional Alolan village and learn our rich history, and take a guided tour up to the ancient Guardian Deity Alter!_

You thumbed over to the next brochure, a garish page awash in green and purple. 

_**SCARE** your pants off on our **ALOLAN GHOST TOUR**. Relive the **TERROR** of the island’s **TRUE GHOST TALES** with a professional **SPECTRAL TOUR GUIDE**!!! Experience **TRUE FEAR** every night from 7pm to 10pm, senior discount, **FREE T-SHIRT**!!! (Ages 10  & up!) _

Pass. 

_Live large in the lap of luxury at the Hano Grand Resort Golf Lounge. Our very own lovely Ms. Kahili gave our 4-acre 16-hole course 5/5 stars—_

Not really your scene. 

_New promotional event! Snap a cute pic of your fav Pokémon—_

Eh. 

You flipped through the rest of the stack of pamphlets you’d snagged at customs. 

The next three were for malasadas (what even was a malasada, honestly?), and the last, a sad advert for a retirement village. 

_Pretty lame, Alola,_ you thought. Tours and stores? 

Bores and snores, more like. 

And you _weren’t_ just throwing a tantrum because you couldn’t afford any of it (a fact you had had convinced yourself of by necessity, because envy was magnitudes more unpleasant than boredom). 

You’d only set down in Akala an hour ago and you were already sick of the place. Shuffling a little on a toasty concrete bench, facing the painfully blue ocean, you sulked—a glum rock caught in the tide of a jovial ocean. 

The sun blazed on palm trees and pedestrians alike. The air was thick with laughter and music. It was easy to see at a glance who was born here and who was visiting—the native islanders were the only ones working, and the smiles they wore were as painted and wooden as the carved idols you saw featured in some of this region’s advertising. A flock of seabird Pokémon called out over the revelers, cavorted about in the sky, and picked at the sand and surf for tasty scraps. Unless you managed to find something to do in your price range, you imagined you’d be joining the Windgull in their hunt before long. Whether to fill your belly or for the sheer entertainment value, you couldn’t guess. 

Where was the night life in this city? Who did you have to shake down to find a good casino? Or a concert? A shop with reasonably priced clothes? A motel? A _bar?_

Forget ghosts and golf, where did young people hang out? The beach, you guessed. Or at the library, studying their pants off, if Alola really was as squeaky-clean as its carefully maintained image suggested—a notion which the uniform-clad youngsters you saw every now and then, chatting amicably about cute upperclassmen and something called ‘trials’, helped confirm. Poor souls. They had nothing but school and sanitized, educational anti-fun to keep them occupied. They’d never know the simple pleasures of growing up in a poor desert town, like the thrill of sneaking into 18+ movies, antagonizing the scary homeless man who squatted in the crumbling ruins of the old clinic, and staging spitting competitions. 

… 

Agh, you couldn’t _believe_ you were getting homesick! 

The worst part of this cloying nostalgia? You knew you didn’t really miss that musty old junkyard. It was the memories of those days you wanted to go back to, from when your dad was still alive, and your dreams were innocent in their dreaming. Innocent like a picture book. Like a bedroom ceiling painted over with Butterfree. 

You sighed, and tried to throw off the exhaustion that had made its home deep in the marrow of your bones. 

Right about now, you’d kill for a nightclub, and a fruity drink with a little umbrella. 

But if fun was out of the question, you needed a laundromat, at the very, very least. All you had left was the souvenir shirt you’d nabbed at the Nacrene Museum, and wearing it around like this felt like tempting fate. 

Complaining aside, things weren’t all bad. Just walking up the pier after disembarking the ferry, you had picked a pocket or two and come away with a few thousand ₽ for your trouble. Only low-risk targets. People were on vacation, here, and the crowd was abound with half-zippered fanny-packs and unattended wallets. You couldn’t even _help_ it. Some people just begged to be robbed. Midori would probably sneer to see you stoop to such an uncouth level of thievery, and yeah, you were probably ruining some rich jerk’s vacation. Real talk, though? There wasn’t room enough in your head for guilt. Not with all the worries you had knocking around in there. 

What you needed now was some place to spend it all. Preferably lodgings, but you’d take a liquor store or a thrift shop. 

You resolved to find yourself a phonebook. There had to be something on this island that suited your needs. Maybe seedier establishments just didn’t advertise? Seemed like the tourist bureau had a pretty firm hand in the way the locals conducted their business. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that tourism was Alola’s biggest industry. 

But _you_ weren’t some slack-jawed tourist. This wasn’t a vacation, as expensive as it had been to get here. 

This was your last shot at freedom. If this was going to be your longish-term home, there was only one way to go about it… adapt, blend, and mingle. Lie low and integrate yourself into the community, so that in half a year, no one would remember you hadn’t lived in Alola all your life. Not _here_ , though. Not on the waterfront, where an ice-cream cone cost a full day’s wage and even the cheapest hotel was a four-star venue. Not in the gloss and glitz of a hundred storefronts, stuffed to the brim with designer wear priced roughly the same as a down-payment for a three-bedroom house. But behind this façade, where people _really_ lived. 

So, with a casual shrug, you balled the pamphlets into a colorful wad and dunked the whole mess into a bin. The same devil-may-care energy took you to your feet, and led you down the road, farther and farther from the shinning face of the city and into the inevitable place where the shops didn’t sparkle. Where the road went to pot holes, and the locals went about their business in a detached neutrality that didn’t require they wear grins and traditional garb and bark business at a crowd of visitors who regarded them as just one more attraction. 

Maybe it was because the going here wasn’t half as rough as Castelia City (or, indeed, a tenth as rough as Pyrite), or maybe it was just because the folks here were very used to strangers passing through, but no one gave you a second glance. Sometimes passersby gave little nods or smiles, which you returned, or even greetings. 

“Alola,” said a middle-aged woman, her dark hair up in curlers, a frisky Rockruff almost dragging her along the sidewalk. 

“Ah— Alola,” you returned, unsure and hesitant. That was no good, you thought. 

The next time you walked by someone (this time, a salaryman with a slick hairdo and a comically large canister of coffee), you squared your shoulders. 

“Alola,” you said, as casual and airy, like you had made this walk every day since you were young—like ‘Alola’ was your first flipping word. 

“Alola,” the man said, briefly flicking his eyes in your direction and waving abstractly at you as he checked his watch. 

_Nailed it._

(\"/)

(/|\\)

It took most of the day, but after you secured yourself a phonebook, it only took a few minutes of reading and two pay-phone calls to get you into a cheap hotel (nowhere near the water, but you weren’t gonna pay out your life insurance policy for a weekend with a fancy view—not that you _had_ insurance). Lunch came in the form of a hole-in-the-wall restaurant; a little joint called Gull’s, with mismatched chairs and paper plates. The food was phenomenal, all family-style cooking, though you’d balked to find Slowpoke tail on the menu in several places. 

_That_ had been a jolt of culture shock. Against your better judgement you had spent a mildly horrified minute reading a blurb on the back of the menu about _humane harvesting of slowpoke tails_ , and while you were by no means squeamish, you’d had to stop as soon as you got to the pictures. 

Slowpoke tail meat was black market stuff, everywhere you’d ever passed through. In Alola you could apparently buy it at the _grocery store._

You tried to keep an open mind. The last thing you needed was stick your nose up at the local customs at the wrong moment and out yourself as some foreign yokel. 

In the spirit of charity, you tipped the waitress—a young woman with a buzzed-down hair who was absolutely drooping with fatigue—a little extra. Wasn’t like you were eating on your own dime, and hey, you might just swing by tomorrow. 

After you finished your meal and a mug of strong coffee (not Midori-level strong, but enough to give you a bit of pep as you continued your exploration), you headed into a more residential area and passed by a boarded-up elementary school. 

Turning the corner at the curb, you heard a distant commotion. Not the dangerous kind of commotion, you determined after a moment of pondering, but the exciting sort that sounded like money and mirth. Cautiously honing in on the cacophony, you found yourself at the site of a Pokémon battle. 

The arena was nestled behind a chain-link fence in a broken-down basketball court. The trainers weren’t too impressive, though they had some Pokémon you had never seen before. The battle was a rather toothless affair, considering the trainers were grade-schoolers, and the combatants themselves were a discolored Sandshrew and some kind of small fruit-like creature. If judged solely from the noise of the spectators, however, a person wouldn’t be amiss in assuming the match was an enrapturing Gym-level clash. You watched, perplexed. What it was that had drawn in a crowd of this size? Boredom? Perhaps you had stumbled upon some kindred spirits. 

Then, as the match concluded (in favor of the girl with the blue Sandshrew), you spotted it. A flash of coin, a group of people crowding around a single individual, paper changing hands. 

You smiled, slightly but genuinely. 

Finally, you had found the fun Akala promised. Betting! Wholesome, old-fashioned betting! 

It was common practice for money to change hands during Pokémon battles, sure. Outsiders placing bets on the outcome was an entirely different matter, and very illegal. From a money-making perspective, it was just too easy to rig the game in your favor, especially if could pocket one or more participants. 

That wasn’t the issue the greater public had, of course. It was the ‘child gambling’ angle that sent so many hands atwist in moral outrage. This sort of thing had been your bread and butter back in Pyrite, was surprising to see it here—even in the suburbs off the tourist-beaten path, this operation was illegal as all heck and occurring in broad daylight. 

You weren’t sure why the local law enforcement hadn’t broken it up yet. People weren’t exactly being subtle about what was going on. 

There was a man in a beanie with a notebook, taking bets and cash from participants, and an announcer in a similar black-and-white outfit rattling off amateurish commentary from a lawn chair. Then again, the excitement didn’t sound all that different from the average spectator sport, and it was difficult to see any of the action from the street through the rusty fence and overgrown shrubbery. Unless someone made a noise complaint, you supposed it wasn’t too likely the police would get involved. Even then, it wasn’t hard to claim that all the ruckus had just been a particularly rowdy basketball game. 

It wasn’t a professional operation (the opposite, actually), but the people who’d set it up had taken enough precautions that you didn’t feel too nervous about sticking around and observing. From there, you’d see if it was worth the trouble of getting involved. 

(\"/)

(/|\\)

You’d gotten one or two suspicious looks when you hopped the fence and headed over, but the slight defensive animosity faded the instant you plopped yourself onto the ancient, filthy bleachers. The next round was starting, and these people had better things to do than ogle a latecomer. As money changed hands and people shifted seats, you wove yourself deeper into the crowded seating and parked yourself at the third-to-last row, exchanging a vague greeting with a mousy blond girl with a sketch pad who sat in the only patch of shade at that level. Any higher than that, and the metal was scorching. 

The air smelled like hot sweat and iron and spilled soda. With a contented stretch, you settled in. 

There was a boy in the seat in front of you, maybe sixteen, who had out a pen and paper and was taking notes. He didn’t seem all that interested in the betting pool, but rather—as a quick glance at his notebook told you—the battling Pokémon themselves. You leaned forward, close enough that you didn’t need to yell over the crown to be heard. 

“Hey, man, I missed the last few matches. You mind telling me what went down?” 

As it happened, he did not, though it was with some slight condescension he informed you that he wouldn’t be ‘lending his predictions’ to help you win money. It was clear he thought a lot of himself, but you knew exactly how to deal with these types. 

“No, dude, I was thinkin’ I might join in,” you said, miming a poké ball toss and smiling gormlessly, “But like I said, I missed the last couple, and you look like you’ve been paying attention…” 

He preened, a bit, and you knew you had him. 

“Well, if you insist,” he said gruffly, and then began rattling off information. Lots of information. 

Of that mess, _this_ is what you believed was useful: 

The competition was set up tournament-style, with people signing up to participate in the morning, and battling it out until one trainer was left standing. 

As far as anyone knew, the whole tournament had sprung up impromptu from nothing just two weeks prior. Every day, a few more people showed up to try out or spectate, and the only advertisement was word-of-mouth. 

None of the participants were particularly great trainers (at least in your informant’s ‘humble’ opinion), though the last few days had seen an upswing in talent (or at least one talent in particular). 

There was a bit of prize money for winners, though nothing spectacular, and tournament participants were not allowed to place bets on themselves or others. 

The people running the show were a trio in black and white, two of whom you had noted coming in (the clerk and the announcer). The third was the allegedly the leader, and he didn’t come around that much—especially not since one person started winning all the matches. 

And finally, the current reigning champ was a young man called Ilima, a dainty guy in a high school uniform who had just shown up a few days ago and completely cleaned out the competition. 

What all this amounted to you weren’t sure. You smelled potential here—it hadn’t quite coalesced in your head yet, but the beginnings of a plan were forming. All you needed now was a little more information. 

You waited through the bouts a thoughtful spectator, and carefully scanned the competition. Allowing for the fact that it was impossible to truly judge someone’s strength without facing them yourself, you judged most of the competitors beneath your level of skill. There were a few trainers that would be iffy to beat (type disadvantage, your old nemesis) but on the whole, you were decently sure you could mop up if you wanted to play this thing straight and just aim for the top tomorrow. Not to mention, there was no guarantee those problem trainers would show up for the tournament after today to mess you up (and, in fact, no way of knowing if somebody who could completely ruin you might appear. All this speculation was of severely limited use). The cash prize was a pittance, though. The real money to be made here was by betting, that much was strikingly obvious. 

The only issue with that was _Ilima,_ who was currently securing his sixth win in a row on the court before you, and the problem was twofold. 

Firstly, the crowd had long since caught on to his strength, so the betting pool for his matches were as shallow as a midday desert puddle. That was just what happened when everyone knew how a bet would play out—everyone bets for the winner, and the spoils are divided back up and everyone breaks even because there are simply no bad bets from which to derive winnings. Worse, if the people running this thing charged a fee to place bets (and why wouldn’t they? How else do you make money with an operation like this, a concession stand?), that meant everyone betting on Ilima’s title matches was actively losing money. 

And second, from what you were seeing, Ilima was _kind of a strong trainer_. 

Not that you could tell by his appearance alone. He was a slight and spindly boy with a dark complexion, bright eyes, a placid smile, and a school uniform. He stood out among the largely college-age crowd like a Ditto at an Incredibly Detailed Facial Features contest, except twice as pink. He looked like he just walked off the set of a bran cereal commercial. And yet Ilima was, with a calm serenity you could easily compare to Midori’s elderly zen, _completely wrecking his opponent’s Pokémon._

They say don’t judge books, but _wow_ most books don’t put out such an acute air of THREAT while still exuding about ten truckloads of elegant charm. 

With just a single Pokémon—a small stern-looking normal-type mammal that you didn’t know the name of—this guy had carved a swath of destruction up through the likes of Machoke, Torkoal, Dusklops. He had done so with no gimmicks that you could detect. Just a stellar command of the basics, and a lot of trust between him and his partner. 

If you had to fight the guy, you weren’t entirely confident you could walk away victorious. 

You could admit it; for his age, that was impressive. 

Too impressive, perhaps. 

As Ilima accepted the prize money for his sixth consecutive win, and the announcer hollered half-heartedly about the winner’s _amazin’ show of skills_ and _wild moves, yo_ , the crowd’s collective disdain—which had been mounting slowly over the past few days and was now swollen to burst—erupted into vicious noise. Someone threw a half-empty can down to the arena, and several more followed, though none came close to hitting the pink-haired boy with the gentle smile. Even the note-taker in front of you, so happy to play at partiality when he’d smugly explained the tournament earlier, had been swallowed up in the hateful outpour. The words he spouted now were not at all tempered by his previous academic posturing. 

Even with as irritated the spectators had been during Ilima’s match, his win had whipped them up into a rage you hadn’t anticipated. These people _really_ wanted to see him lose. 

And just like that, the final component of the con job you were planning slid neatly into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOT DEAD, YOU GUYS
> 
> Having a helluva time, though. Got let go from my job and moving to another state on top of that!!! So!!!!! Things are very!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Hectic!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> (also I’m dead broke and can’t afford internet right now, so if comment replies are slow in coming just know I am reading them and will get back to you as soon as possible,)
> 
> I’m still writing, I promise! Even if it’s at a much slower rate. 
> 
> Stay cool out there!!
> 
> Love,  
> your pal
> 
> **UPDATE: still not dead, but my life has been eaten alive by the Search For a Better Job**
> 
> **if you want to chill with me or send story questions, feel free to drop me a line at https://extra-fulgadrome.tumblr.com/**
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> **love,  
>  your pal**


	7. Chapter 7

After the tournament, you hadn’t gone back to your hotel room until late into the night. What you had planned required a bit of set up, a lot of leg work, and a little luck. 

When you awoke the next day, sprawled over a thin mattress and threadbare sheets, you were pleased to discover that the day would be overcast. Not that the heat bothered you, considering you’d grown up in the hottest, driest, dustiest canyon on the face of the planet, but there were some tricks that just performed better under limited visibility. Cloud cover didn’t seem like much, but with what you were about to pull, the less scrutiny you drew, the better. 

And what a con it would be. 

…well, it was kid’s stuff, compared to the Lacrene Museum heist, but apparently Alola didn’t even have any gym leaders to enrage, so you would have to make the best of it. Your body thrummed with anticipation all through breakfast. Being shut away inside granny’s—er, _Midori’s_ apartment, and then being shunted straight into a long, overseas trip… well, you were eager to stretch your legs, so to speak. It wouldn’t do to get complacent. 

Today, a back alley pokémon fighting ring. Tomorrow…? A invaluable relic. Secret government schematics for mysterious technology. A lovely young heiress with an obscenely large fortune! You indulged in a bit of fantasizing as you walked, suppressing a smile even as you arrived at the basketball court where the tournament was being held. With utmost casualness, you signed on to participate, paying a 500₽ entry fee. You didn’t use your real name, or even the alias Midori had bought for you. 

Somewhat nervous, you hovered around the announcer’s table as he drew up the brackets. This was the first real hurdle—your plan depended on your very specific placement. You might’ve been able to negotiate with (or bribe) the organizer if you were unlucky and ended up in the wrong place, but as it turned out, that wasn’t necessary. They’d put you in Ilima’s block, just as you hoped, and a certain other party in the other. Just as planned. It seemed fortune was smiling upon you again. 

The cards were dealt, and you had handily secured the best for your hand in your typical style. Your goal was simple; make the most money you possibly could, and bail before anyone caught on. Your tools? Frustrated tournament participants and spectators, who had made a common casino patron’s error and mistook a talented player for their enemy, when it was, of course, _the house._ In other words, those punks in black shorts, taking their cut from the betting pool and sitting pretty on their profit while Ilima took the heat. 

How do you make money at a rigged tournament, where the outcome was all but assured? Well, if the sum of prize money wasn’t worth your time, don’t bother with winning, for starters. 

Most people didn’t enter tournaments while painstakingly planning their own loss. But most people weren’t you. 

Sometimes you had to throw the battle to win the war, right? Besides, anyone with half a brain their head could see the real money was in betting. It probably didn’t seem that way now, what with every poor shmuck being forced to bet on one jerk because of his massive winning streak. People were coming away from a successful bet hemorrhaging money, while the organizers quietly scraped a little off the top to “cover expenses”—that was a little backwards, wasn’t it? It was about time someone injected a little uncertainty back into the game. 

If your life was a contrived television show, this would be the point where someone set a new piece on a game board, to illustrate a hackneyed metaphor. You could just picture it—a checker labeled “chaos,” maybe, toppling a particularly chic chess piece in pink lacquer. 

Just because you planned on losing didn’t mean you planned to let Ilima _win._

But _someone_ had to come out on top for all of this to work, so you had gone recruiting. 

Any enterprising young criminal like yourself knew how to set up a fall guy. They grab all the attention, and when everything was said and done, you escaped unscathed. In this particular scenario, being the fall guy meant winning the tournament and trouncing Tall, Dark, and Sparkly. A task that you wouldn’t exactly have to twist someone’s arm to perform. 

And sure enough, when you presented a doctored version of your plan to your stooge of choice the night before, it hadn’t taken much convincing. You’d chosen to speak to Quint, the runner up in the previous competition—the one with the Dusklops and the bad haircut. He’d jumped at the chance to rub a win in Ilima’s smug, elegant face, and wasn’t afraid of a little cheating. It was as easy as a quick pokémon battle. You’d mopped up in a few minutes, assured him of the superiority of your tactics, and then asked him if he wanted to partner up and show that Ilima a thing or two. 

_“I don’t get it,”_ he had said, scratching at an uneven hedge of hair that might politely be called bangs, _“You might even be strong enough to take him on your own. What do you need me for?”_

You shrugged, and leaned in conspiratorially. 

_“Guess I just don’t like attention,”_ you said, and then, appealing to his ego, _“Just hear me out for a second. That was your fourth or fifth attempt, right? Five days of humiliation. And you keep coming back, for what? So that kid can step all over you again? Don’t you think you deserve to win, with how persistent you've been? Haven’t you_ personally _earned it?”_

Quint blinked, slowly, and pulled away from you. A light pink dusted his cheeks, and he stood up a little straighter. 

_“…yeah. Yeah! You’re right. I_ do _deserve it.”_

To seal the deal, you shook on it. Quint’s grip was about as weak as his skills as a trainer, but by the time you were through with Ilima’s pokémon, a stiff wind would be able to topple them. You’d set them up, and he’d knock them down, easy as bowling. Teamwork at its finest. 

And to think Midori said you had issues working with others! 

So, your strategy against Ilima was sabotage, pure and simple. You couldn’t stop at that, though, not if you wanted to make money. As per the rules (which existed to prevent scenarios exactly like this, nice try, fellas), you couldn’t participate in the tournament while simultaneously placing bets for the outcome. The obvious solution was to collude with others, and have them place bets for you. On your behalf, but not _on you,_ seeing as you didn’t plan to win. 

Convincing people to place bets on Quint was even harder than getting Quint to team up with you. Even harder than _that_ was getting them to promise to split their winnings, afterward. 

People wanted to part with their money even less than they wanted to bet against a titan like Summer Sweatervest. 

The trick was finding the right people. A simple enough prospect, considering how much ill will you had to leverage against Ilima. Taking advantage of their overwhelming animosity, you sought out particularly spiteful tournament losers—the ones who had sworn off participating, and only came back every day out of pure, hopeful spite that someone would finally take Ilima down. The people who had taken it personally, either that some delicate school kid had usurped their good time, or simply resented being made to look weak in front of a crowd of their peers. 

Sharing half of their wager’s earnings with you was a small price to pay for seeing your enemy brought to his knees. It helped, too, that none of them were aware that you’d made the same deal across a handful of other trainers. They felt special, to be included in a secret plan to take down a mutual foe. And who were you to take that from them? 

If the circumstances were any different, a plan like this just wouldn’t work. But with the uproar that was certain to explode over Ilima’s victory, and the spotlight falling hard on Quint (not you, some loser who whiffed in the semi-finals)? You couldn’t have hoped for a better distraction. You had secured enough pledges from embittered folks, that even if some of them reneged on your deal, you were sure to get your money’s worth in the end, no matter what. Don’t underestimate malice as a motivator—if even a fourth of the people you had spoken to did as they were told, bet all they had on Quint, and kept their promise to spilt it with you? You’d be drowning in money by the day’s end. 

Now the only obstacle was your own ability to see this through. And Ilima, you supposed. 

Nothing to do now but let the dice fall where they may. 

(\"/)

(/|\\)

As you climbed the bleachers, looking for somewhere to wait out the matches before your first turn, you ended up settling near the top. Luckily, the sun was still obscured by clouds, so the metal seats weren’t scalding to the touch. As you grabbed a clear bottle of water out of your backpack—a purchase you had made at the Akala docks, then frugally refilled with tap water from the hotel—you saw that a blond girl, who you vaguely recalled from the day before. She had taken the same spot at the top as before, though her sketchbook was sitting unopened on the seat next to her. There was nothing interesting to draw yet, you supposed. The action hadn’t started. 

Heh. Maybe if Quint was lucky, the girl would commemorate his big win with a nice caricature. 

Speaking of familiar faces, the nerd from yesterday had also made a repeat appearance. Come to think of it, he was wearing the same uniform as Ilima. 

“So you signed up,” he stated, frowning. _Nice to see you too, guy._

“Yeah, man.” You began to shrug, then abandoned the gesture as too much effort partway through. 

“Even after I took the time to explain Ilima’s unbroken win streak to you? Why would you waste your money like that?” He seemed a little insulted at your lack of gratitude, or that you had flaunted his advice. This was the sort of humorless teenager who just couldn’t stand to be condescended to by adults, the poor thing. Oh, you knew that vexation well. It was something you were still working through, truth be told. 

It was like looking into a mirror at scrawnier, pimplier you. 

Smiling, you shook your head at him. 

“Listen, pal, what’s your name?” 

“Sean,” he said, curtly. 

You cradled your chin in your palm, affecting an air of coddling indulgence that he _immediately_ picked up on, the skin around his eyes tightening in irritation. He was practically bristling. 

“Sean,” you repeated, patronizing, “You know it’s all just for fun, right? Don’t take things so seriously. A kid like you shouldn’t be so uptight.” 

You could see the exact moment where he completely dismissed you as a person of interest—he bared his teeth for a moment, looking for all the world like an irate Rattata. You quirked an eyebrow at him, maintaining your smile. With one last snort of derision he turned back around in his seat, swiveling at the waist, his eyes snapping to the competitors who had just taken up their positions on the court below. 

Now he wouldn’t expect you to be able to tie your own shoes, let alone exploit a handful of loopholes in the rules to make a bunch of money. 

That was one risk tidied up. 

(\"/)

(/|\\)

You were out of your seat in a second when you heard your alias called, well accustomed to answering to false names. As you shimmied through the crowd seated on the bleachers, you saw a number of your cohorts shoot you Meaningful Looks, which you carefully avoided. Talk about amateur hour. Well, they couldn’t be faulted for enthusiasm. 

Walking out into the arena, you tried to appear excited, but a little nervous. Seeing as that was about the sum of it, it wasn’t exactly difficult. No matter how many jobs you pulled, the jitters never really went away. 

Still, you’d take a hundred Ilimas over a single Lenora. That woman wanted your blood. 

You shivered once, violently, and it had nothing to do with the temperature. 

“Aight! Welcome to round three, people! Things are really about to heat up now!” the announcer shouted, striking a pose. 

To his credit, the crowd’s lukewarm response didn’t put a damper on his passion. You clapped politely, ever the good sport. Your opponent, a glum girl with wavy hair and slightly smudged lipstick, seemed above all this nonsense. It wasn’t a convincing nonchalance, considering this was her second time participating, at the very least. You remembered her from yesterday—she was the one with the off-color Sandshrew. 

You’d made it your mission after yesterday’s tournament had wrapped up to find out what that business was all about. Alolan forms of pokémon… it really was a curious phenomena. Your interest had dropped off a bit when you discovered not a single bug pokémon had a regional variant, but still. 

“You ready, contestants? On three! Three! Two! One— _fight!”_

The girl at the other end of the arena nodded at you, and let her poké ball fly. 

Alolan Sandshrew. Ice and steel. Immune to poison, resistant to bug-type moves, and dealing double damage any one of your pokémon. There were a few type combinations you would be worse off facing, but not many. Internally, you grimaced. Things were off to a flying start, huh? 

Ah, well. What was that thing you said to Midori? Something something, type advantage doesn’t matter if you’re quick and clever? 

Time to live up to your own hype. 

“Go, Yanma!” 

The dragonfly pokémon emerged with a triumphant cry, already zipping out of reach of the Sandshrew’s icy claws. Undeterred, your opponent sneered, wiping her hand across her face in concentration and further smearing her makeup. 

“Powder snow!” she called. Her pokémon whipped up a small flurry of ice, coalescing it straight out of the moisture in the air, then sent the tiny snowstorm at Yanma. Too many attacks of that sort could ground him, especially if they targeted his wings. But here was the difference between other trainers and yourself: endless, endless drilling, on every situation you could think of. It was slow going (especially with Yanma, whose attention span was a little… questionable) but you had taught your pokémon to act autonomously whenever possible, trusting them with a great more decision-making power than was typical. 

It was the smart thing to do, considering how easily communication could potentially break down between you and your pokémon during heists. They had to know what to do on their own. 

So when Yanma disrupted the snow cloud with a well-placed wing-attack, and the Sandshrew turned to its trainer to seek out further instruction, Yanma was already shooting a supersonic wave at it—all without a word from you. Your opponent shouted at it to dodge, seconds too late for it to matter. Seconds were all it took for the tables to turn. Life comes at you fast. 

The bond of trust between trainer and pokémon was a wonderful thing, but it was so easily exploited. 

At this level of battle, at least, where inexperienced pokémon needed to be spoon-fed instruction. From what you had witnessed, the elites tended to operate the way you did: a sort of no-words-needed partnership, but born of years of experience and bonding, rather than the intensive scenario-training you were implementing. Not to get a swelled head, of _course_ you weren’t anywhere near that level of mastery. Someday, maybe. But for now, you could punch a little above your weight class by using similar tactics. 

The Sandshrew stumbled, clawed at the air. The confusion had taken. 

“Sandshrew! Snap out of it!” the girl shouted. It turned and slipped, thoroughly discombobulated, skidding along the asphalt. 

“Yanma,” you said, calm. “Shadow ball.” 

Yanma chirped sweetly as an orb of undiluted darkness took shape—so dark it made the overcast day seem almost painfully bright—and then fired. 

(\"/)

(/|\\)

On the way back to your perch near the top of the bleachers, a handful of scattered cheers followed you. Provided they weren’t _all_ coming from your gaggle of well-meaning but rather unstealthy conspirators, it was nice to get a little public recognition. It would make it all the more sweet when you lost against Ilima, and Quint heroically avenged you. 

Sean dutifully ignored you as you sat down and down half your water. Behind you, the sketching girl was well into her work, her pencil scribbling almost feverishly against the paper. 

Sure, you could admit it. You were a little interested to see what she was doodling. And, well, there was time to kill. 

“Alola,” you said, scooting up and back, sliding next to her. 

“’lola,” she eventually replied, pausing for a long moment as her pencil scratched rapidly across the large pad of paper in her lap. When she looked up, it wasn’t to meet to gaze, but to look down at the arena for just a moment before diving back into her drawing. Huh. 

Were you coming on too strong with this _Alola_ stuff? Not every Hello had to be an Alola. Maybe you needed to cool it a little. Suddenly a little sheepish, you fussed with the zipper of your jacket. 

“You want to see.” It wasn’t a question. The weird Alolan Meowth was out of the bag, you guessed. 

“Yeah,” you said, all your stuffed-up confidence fading in the face of her straight-forwardness. “I mean, if that’s cool.” 

For the first time, she sent you a little smile, and slid the pad of paper with her doodle on it over to you. 

Oh. _Oh._

You were a little stunned, actually. 'Doodle' was... very much the wrong word. It was a rough drawing, yeah, and a lot of forms were mostly implied by long contours and cross-hatching—but calling it a “doodle” was diminishing. Most of your exposure to art was from the ‘spot the forgery’ ‘looks expensive’ ‘recognizing a classic’ school of thought, but even with your limited understanding of the craft, the attention to detail and care was plain to see. It was incredible. This collection of lines here—that was _exactly_ the flurry of Yanma’s wings, captured better than a photograph could, because of how she implied depth and motion. The anatomy was perfect, too, and that actually WAS your area of expertise. The Sandshrew’s unsteady stance was just as you recalled, and the look in its eyes, empathetically rendered… it was trying its best, you could see. Clearer than you had during the battle, if you had even taken note of its temperament at all. Then there was its trainer, her uneven makeup made artful in its application—or had you just been thinking unkindly of her? 

And then… there was you. 

Did… did your eyes really _glint_ like that? 

Teeth sharp, slight smirk, stance relaxed, hands in pockets, chin tilted back… bordering on smug, closer to resolute. Focus immutable, nervousness left by the wayside as soon as the action began, an absolute faith in Yanma, and by proxy, themselves. There was a brutality in that gaze. A promise of violence. 

This was someone who would tear down anyone to get what they wanted. 

God, you looked like _Petrel._

The girl slid her sketchbook back into her lap, and you numbly watched it go. 

She didn’t seem to expect or desire a response, even if it was praise. Still, you felt she was owed SOME kind of reaction for reaching into the core of you and _yanking._

“You’re really good at drawing,” you said dumbly. 

She nodded sagely at you, well aware of that fact. You stared at your hands, deeply embarrassed, all too aware of how it’d look if you just left, and sat back down by yourself. Finally, she seemed to take pity on you. 

“Pokémon battles are good for figure drawing. Your Yanma was very lively,” she said. 

“Oh. Thanks?” 

“Mm. You’re a good model, too.” 

_T-thanks?_

It was embarrassing how tongue-tied you were. This wasn’t like you at all. 

“…I haven’t seen you around,” she eventually said. And with her keen eyes... well, you could hardly claim she’d just missed you all these years. 

“Yeah. I, uh, haven’t been here too long,” you said, leaving up in the air where exactly ‘here’ meant or how long ‘long’ was. It wasn’t exactly a train of thought you wanted her to pursue, so you followed it up with a question. 

“You just come here to watch, or…?” 

“Yep, just watching,” she said, finally putting her pencil down, making you feel bad for distracting her. “I’m here with a friend. He’s competing. I thought about joining in, but there’s not much point if I can’t use my full power, you know?” 

She was a lot chattier after she stopped drawing, and somehow a lot fiercer than you expected. Now that her attention was on you in full, it was like you were being scrutinized intensely. You’d kind of pegged her as a space case, but of the two of you, you weren’t exactly the _incredibly cutting judge of character,_ huh? 

Still, even with her eyes on you like that, you were regaining your sense of balance with every passing second. It wasn’t long before you could offer some semblance of interesting conversation, steering well clear of disaster topics, like the specifics of where you grew up or why you were there. 

Finally dislodging your foot from your mouth, you asked her what her name was. In response, she handed you a little hand-painted business card. 

Mina. 

“I’m a freelancer for now, but just you wait. I’m gonna really _be_ something. Bigtime.” 

You didn’t doubt it. 

And if you were a little more nervous in your next bout against a boy and his Tangela, because a certain someone was probably watching intently… 

Well, you tried not to show it. 

(\"/)

(/|\\)

The moment of truth had come, your big match against Ilima. After weathering Mina, you weren’t scared of some prissy guy who hadn't even graduated high school. At least that’s what you told yourself as you descended the bleachers for your third match of the day. Standing across from him, though… 

He had a certain _intensity._

“Let’s have a fun match, okay? I wish you luck!” He tossed his hair, and the cotton-candy-pink gossamer strands feathered out in the afternoon air, as if caressed gently by the wind. The crowd booed harshly, and if anything, his smiled brightened. You felt distinctly threatened. 

You sent him a thumbs up and a guileless smile. 

“Same to you!” 

The air seemed to chill as he returned your gesture. 

Hah… hah. You tried for some of that confidence displayed in Mina’s drawing of you. Some of that icy ruthlessness. What was there to be afraid of? 

You were going to _bury_ him. 

… 

You meant, Quint was going to bury him. 

“ALRIGHT, FOLKS!” the announcer shouted in his customary shriek. “It’s time for the semi-finals! This match is gonna be OFF! THE! CHAIN! Over here we’ve got the reining champ! Anything but normal, he’s the guy that makes his opponents break down and cry! Give it up for Ilimaaaaa! UN. DE. FEATED, for six straight days! What a _crazy_ streak, am I right?!” 

The crowd's jeering was outright rancorous. Ilima seemed to thrive on it. 

“He’d better start sweatin’, though, ’cuz the up-an’-comer’s one COOL CUSTOMER! MAN, I wouldn’t wanna bug this contestant, that’s fo’ sho!” 

Maybe you’d won over a few people with your showing in your last two matches, or maybe the crowd was just desperately hoping that someone would finally take Pastel Pink down. Regardless, your reception was actually pretty positive, and you couldn’t dismiss them _all_ as people you’d made deals with, being unsubtle. So this was the limelight? Not bad. 

Still, you preferred shadows over spotlights for a reason. Leave it to others to grandstand—at the end of the day, it just wasn’t your style. 

But that didn’t mean that you wouldn’t put on a good show. 

“Three!” the announcer shouted, over the howl of the gathered audience. 

You tossed your poké ball, and the ethereal silhouette of a moth took form from the energy within. Dustox would be pivotal for executing your plan, but that was no cause for worry. She’d long since proven her abilities to you. 

“Two!” 

Ilima, quick on the draw, tossed out his Yungoos, the little fiend. It snapped its jaw sharply, bouncing, then darted about impatiently. 

“One!” 

Somehow, there wasn’t room for doubt anymore. You weren't going to fail. 

Though you supposed it was possible that even after whittling Ilima down, Quint could still screw up and knock over your carefully constructed house of cards. 

There was no time to think about that now. 

_“Fight!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i rise from the grave, fling this chapter at your feet, and sink back into the loam
> 
> no chapter for months and then i drop a cliffhanger on you. i'm..... bad. sorry
> 
> hope you like this chapter even though NOTHING. HAPPENS.
> 
> *crumbles to dust*

**Author's Note:**

> I post fic updates on my tumblr, at 
> 
> https://extra-fulgadrome.tumblr.com/
> 
> Come on in and send me a question,, if you're feelin' it.


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